Rosy Hours
by wzlwmn
Summary: Lerouxesque Erik despairs after Christine leaves with Raoul. Four months later she turns up on his doorstep! Loveable characters and much humor. You may just love this loooooong story, which spans about 24 years. I hope you enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

"Erik, you can't stay down here and wallow in self pity for the rest of your life."

"Oh, can't I? Watch."

"I knew you'd never leave as long as Christine was at the Opera, but now it's time you moved on, my friend. You need to return to the world."

"I'm staying here, Daroga. Give me a cigarette, will you?"

"What? But your voice!"

"Who gives a damn about my voice anymore? I don't have Christine; there's nothing to sing about."

"Come; you say that now, but in time—"

"Are you going to give me a cigarette or not?"

"Here, ruin your voice, you wretch."

"Thank you. I need a drink, too. Would you like a drink? What about a bottle. Let's get drunk."

"What shall we drink to, my friend? Your matchless gift for melodrama?"

"Shut up. Let's drink the gallant Comte de Chagny; vapid and beautiful. What more could a woman want? She's probably in that vile creature's clutches at this very moment, Reza!"

"Likely so, and a good thing, too; if you ask me--"

"Funny, I don't recall asking you…"

"--if you had her in your clutches, you wouldn't know what to do with her."

"I'd damn well figure out what to do with her, and have a marvelous time while I did! You're a fine one to talk; when's the last time you sampled a woman's charms?"

"Point taken, Erik. I do hope you feel better now. Listen, I think you should come and stay with Darius and me."

"No. I'm happy here."

"Now you're simply lying. You're not happy anywhere."

"So my dungeon is as good a place as any other."

"What would you like to bring with you?"

"Nothing. I'm staying here."

"Alright, but just say you were coming, what would you bring? Indulge me."

"Coffin. Piano. Music, books…"

"Wouldn't you rather bring your mother's furniture and sleep in a proper bed?"

"NO. What do I need a proper bed for?"

"As usual, you're irredeemable. Well, we'll bring your mother's furniture anyway."

"We're not bringing anything; I told you, I'm not coming."

"Erik, I happen to know of a construction project that might interest you."

"I can't do that nonsense anymore. I'm old."

"You can design and supervise; and you're not that old. You know, it would be a tremendous help if you did come and stay with me. I'm tired of being alone."

"You have Darius, and I don't want to move in with you."

"What about if I promise to marry you?"

"Oh, well, that's different then, if you intend to make me respectable. I'll be moved in tomorrow."

My Persian friend got me interested in the construction job; that's what did it. He was absolutely correct, of course, that I needed something to occupy my mind, but I was not about to ever give him the satisfaction of admitting it. The job was perfect for me; it consisted of designing and constructing storage vaults under the Louvre to protect that portion of their collection which was not on display. As it happened, I learned that only a fraction of their holdings are actually on display at any time. When I read the request for proposals and bids, I positively salivated, I wanted the job that much. I set to work on sketches and forgot about food and sleep, just as I do when I compose.

The daroga plied me with food and wine when I was exhausted, and by these devious means, managed to convince me that he could take much better care of me if I came up to his house to complete my proposal. So it was no great surprise when I staggered into my bedroom one day and fell over into my mother's bed.

"Good morning, my friend. Did you sleep well for a change in a proper bed?"

"Hm. Coffee. Thank you, Darius."

"You look a sight, I must say."

"I always look a sight, you cretin."

"More than usual. I think you should take more sun."

"I think you should take more arsenic."

"You're perfectly delightful in the morning, Erik. I'm so glad you're here."

"Reza. Had I realized what an insufferable chatterbox you are at this time of day, I'd never have come."

"Now, now. Haven't you heard that friendship is all about compromise?"

"I am compromising. I have not strangled you to death. Unh. This coffee is not working. I'm going back to bed."

"But you just got up! You haven't got a woman in there with you, eh?"

"Two."

We were taking tea one afternoon—well, cognac—when Darius advised that we had a lady caller. A glance between Reza and I was all that we needed to confirm to ourselves that such a thing was impossible. Darius proffered the tray with the calling card. The daroga glanced at it and gestured toward me.

"The lady is here for you, my friend."

Darius moved closer so I could read the name on the card: 'Christine, Comtesse de Chagny'.

Then she was in the doorway, looking small, nervous, and sinfully beautiful.

"Please come in and make yourself comfortable, Comtesse," the daroga was doing better than I; he was still able to speak. Christine handed her coat to Darius and perched on the sofa like a little green bird. Her suit was of exquisite emerald moiré silk with bronze soutache trim; the wardrobe of a comtesse.

"I hope you'll forgive my abrupt departure, but I have a prior engagement," my Persian friend lied, and none too well. I gave him my best Don't Leave Me look, to no avail.

"I had a hard time to find you here…" she opened. Her eyes darted nervously and she couldn't look at me.

"What are you doing here, Comtesse?"

"I need your help!" she blurted out.

I laughed bitterly. "You need me? What could I possibly do for you that your rank and money won't?"

"I want to leave my husband…I have nowhere to go. You're the only friend I have, Erik!" She looked at me then; her eyes were bright and wet. I laughed again, softly to myself, because I knew I was doomed. I sat close to her on the sofa, though I knew it was a mistake.

"What happened, Christine?" She fell against my shoulder. The same fragrance in her hair; the same sweet, tender weight against me.

"I don't like being married…" she twisted the green moiré in her fingers fretfully. "You know about …being married, don't you, Erik?" I wasn't certain what she meant, but I thought I would take a chance on saying that I did.

"I don't like it. It hurts, and it's ugly, and bad enough once, but he expects me to submit to him over and over again! I can't anymore!' She threw herself into my arms and sobbed. I let her cry until she was spent. I had absolutely no idea what to say to her, so it was just as well to let her cry.

"Can I stay here with you?" she snuffled at last.

If I had felt at a loss for words before, now it was doubly true. I resorted to blathering inanely about propriety, spewing words like 'scandal' and 'reputation'.

"Christine, what of your reputation, my Dear? Have you any idea of the scandal? It is notorious enough that a Comtesse should leave her husband, let alone living openly with two old bachelors to whom she is unrelated! Christine, you mustn't even imagine such a thing!" For myself, I care nothing for the moral façade these shameless hypocrites parade. I would flout their conventions for the sheer delight of it, but I cannot think of Christine being subjected to censure.

"I don't care about my reputation! What reputation will I have if I throw myself into the Seine? For I shall, if I must, anything but return to my marriage!" She said this with all the melodrama of which a twenty-year-old innocent is capable, but still her words struck terror into my heart.

"W-well, Christine, you see, it's not my home. I don't know how the daroga would feel…" I wavered.

"You're my only hope, Erik!" she wailed. "Take me back below the Opera!"

"Christine," I began, treading very cautiously, "you know, it's not…" I was about to argue on the Comte's behalf. No. Yes; I had to try. It was theoretically possible that someday my conscience might bother me if I didn't.

"Of course, I would never want you to do anything which makes you unhappy, Angel. But you must know that…this is the sort of thing that all married couples get up to."

"Yes, that is just what Raoul told me, too," Now I can die a happy man, I thought; Raoul and I are sounding alike.

"But it wouldn't be like that if you and I were married! You'd never—your love has always been so beautiful, so kind and gentle…that is what I want, the noble love that we share." Christine stroked my face tenderly. God: I was her Sir Galahad…Christine looked at me desperately.

"You still love me, don't you Erik?"

"Of course, Angel. Always," I confessed. Christine kissed me then; long and lingering. She was here, saying that she wanted to stay with me: she was holding out to me all I'd dreamed of…except touching her, loving her. In a second, I decided that I could be more than satisfied with what remained.

"It's just that I remember how happy you were, how excited about your new life. You loved him, Christine." Embedding and twisting the knife in one's own heart is a novel sensation, I discovered.

"But that's not the life I got, don't you see? It's nothing like what I dreamed! I did love him; but not anymore, not after all this! He was so considerate before we were married. He spoke with me, sought my opinion. Now, he treats me as though I am his property, speaking for me, telling me what to think, what to do! It isn't just to do with…his rights as my husband. But, Erik, I don't see why anyone would agree to such a thing—and just to have babies? Anyway, I don't have to do something just because everyone does."

"No. No, of course not," I agreed. I could not think of any reason why Christine should still be feeling such pain and distaste after four months of marital bliss.

"I wonder, have you spoken to your doctor about it?"

"Erik, if you don't want me anymore, just say so, but stop telling me I must return to Raoul! Even if you turn me out into the street, I shall not return to Raoul! I cannot," she cried. I was telling her to return to Raoul?

"No, Angel, it's your decision, of course. Whatever you want, I'll help you in any way I can, always," I vowed. At least I could say that with a completely full heart.

"Then I can stay here with you? You'll speak to—"

"The daroga?"

"Yes, you'll speak to Mr Daroga and make it alright. Oh, but Erik, you won't tell him…anything, will you? I'd die of shame…" What a beautiful little paradox my beloved is.

"Of course not, Darling. I'll find something to say to him; never fear." I smiled. "You go back home and collect your things, and—"

"Oh, I brought my things. My bags are in the hall," she blinked.

I see. "Well, let me talk to the daroga and see what can be arranged. Would you like some tea?"

"I thought Mr Daroga had an appointment."

"Oh, yes, quite so, but it was a brief one. No doubt he's returned and just…giving you and me some privacy—knowing that we're old friends."

I excused myself and asked Darius to set the Comtesse up with some tea and chocolates. My Persian friend studied me surreptitiously over the newspaper he pretended to read. I poured myself tea and joined him at the kitchen table.

"Don't insult my intelligence: put the paper down. We must talk."

"Really? How is the Comtesse?" the daroga grinned.

"Get ahold of yourself, my friend. She wishes to leave her husband; at least, that is what she currently believes. She wants me—us—to take her in. Here." I let the idea settle as I sipped my tea. Reza was thunderstruck.

"God in heaven. You're joking."

"I wish I could tell you so. Naturally I told her that it was not my decision to make; that you have your reputation to think of…a comely young comtesse, estranged from her husband, living openly with not one, but two dashing bachelors…"

"What a delicious scandal, Erik. I never knew you had it in you," my Persian friend gazed at me in undisguised admiration.

"Don't be absurd, please. She is not running to me; she is running away from the bestial boy. She put it most eloquently, 'You're the only friend I have, Erik!' I call your attention to the word 'friend'."

"Hm. Still, absence does make the heart grow fonder. And what has the Comte done to fall so far from grace in so short a time?" Thankfully, Darius was elsewhere. I leaned forward and the daroga bent toward me, conspiratorially.

"We are not having this conversation." I raised my eyebrows; he nodded.

"The Comtesse has not warmed to the realities of married life. For one, she seems to have anticipated that her marriage would be more of a relationship of equals than it has actually turned out to be. Secondly, she takes exception to the Comte's...vigorous fulfillment of his marital obligation. Her precise words were painful and ugly…and it was bad enough once, but over and over again is simply more than she can bear," I delivered this homily as solemnly as I could.

"And what does she expect if she throws in with you?" Reza wondered.

"Nothing so sordid, to be sure. My love is beautiful, noble, kind, and gentle," I rinsed the acrid taste from my mouth with a swish of tea.

"Is it indeed?"

"So she says. It would never be like that if she and I were married, she is sure of it." My friend was silent for some time.

"What do you think of all this, Erik? What have you to say to me?" he asked softly.

"I say to you that I cannot refuse her anything. If she wishes to stay while she sorts things out, I can bear it," I shrugged. "It is delightful to see her again. Anyway, she won't stay. I give her three days at most before she returns breathlessly to her naughty Comte. She may have my room; I don't sleep much."

"It is not the details of the sleeping arrangements which concern me," the daroga said, meaningfully.

"I know. I know. Don't worry," I sighed. His face told me he didn't believe a word of it.

"Thank you, old friend. I will relay this news of your generosity to the Comtesse."

Christine was sipping tea when I entered; she put her teacup down and approached me anxiously.

"My friend says that you are welcome here."

Christine threw her arms around my neck with such enthusiasm I feared I might topple over.

"What did you tell him?" she worried, searching my eyes.

"Well, I…said that…you husband was not the man you thought he was…and that you felt my absence more keenly as time went by...He seems to actually believe that I might have captured your heart," I smiled weakly. The tale was so preposterous that it even made me queasy.

"Erik, you have saved me! I shall be in your debt forever," she wept as I held her gently. This warm, fragrant girl in my hands was entrusting herself wholly to my care. My mind was reeling with the enormity of these events. I shuddered, realizing the depth of her trust in me; the weight of my awesome obligation to her. I may have offered a silent prayer; as if the Almighty, who had utterly abandoned me even before I was born, might be persuaded for Christine's sake to have mercy and grant me strength for the task that loomed before me. Perhaps the Omniscient One knew what lay ahead; surely I did not.


	2. Chapter 2

My friend laid on an extravagant evening meal in honor of Christine. When I took pains to assure her that we did not normally dine in such splendor, the daroga accused me of being a curmudgeon. Christine had the temerity to laugh along.

"Now see here, my dear Comtesse," I cautioned her, "if you are to remain under my protective wing, I shall thank you to remember where your allegiance lies."

"Oh, Erik," she sighed, her musical laugh still lingering in the air, "you know I adore you." She reached boldly for my hand and stroked it most suggestively. I have no trouble reporting that I blushed mightily.

"Now gentlemen, if you will permit me, I will excuse myself. I am feeling so very drained; good night."

I refused to meet my friend's gaze after Christine left us. I had no explanation for her shocking behavior.

"Erik, she said she adored you, my friend; did you hear?"

"Of course I heard; that was for your benefit. I don't know why, but you seem to encourage the coquette in her, and I must say that I am unamused by it."

"Well, I don't know why she would feel moved to put on such a display for my benefit. I wonder if you know what you've let yourself in for, old friend."

"Reza, please. Now, if you will excuse me, I've some sketches to work on. I'll take myself and a cognac upstairs."

I worked until the small hours of the morning; I had just a bit more to finish and then to bed. Suddenly a shaft of light from the hallway spread across my periphery.

"Erik," Christine breathed sleepily. "What time is it?"

"It must be nearly two, my Dear. Is something wrong?"

"No," she rubbed her eyes like a sleepy child. Yawning, she stretched out her arms. It was then that I realized that in her dreamy state, she'd wandered from her bed with neither robe nor shawl. The light from the hallway poured through her bed gown, exposing the contours of her body like a shadow play.

I have touched Christine respectfully, and I have felt her kisses. I have dreamed of her—I am a man, after all. Many times as I lay awake with my tortured thoughts, I have imagined that I have suffered all there is to suffer of unrequited longing and love denied. But when I saw the turn of her calves, the smooth curve of her thighs, the rise of her hips before the plunging valley of her waist, and her breasts…no sculpted alabaster perfection in all the museums of the world could rival what was revealed to me in light and shadow. I burned. I realized that I had suffered nothing to compare with what was to come. I was terrified, for I understood that I was truly damned.

I do not know how long I stood, wracked with lust; seconds or minutes. Slowly, my Angel Comtesse's voice crept through the fog of my black yearnings.

"When will you come to bed?"

No, you have not heard correctly, it is the blood burning in your veins that makes you pervert her words so foully.

"I am sorry, my Dear, what it is you asked?"

Christine stepped nearer; a blessing, for she moved from the light. Nevertheless, my twisted soul groaned its loss.

"I said, when will you come to bed, Erik?"

How I was able to speak in so composed a manner I do not know. The monster within threatened to overwhelm me, crush Christine to my breast and smother her with kisses…but miraculously, it was her Guardian Angel who spoke.

"Christine, I have given you my room. I am comfortable here; I will sleep among my books, my music, my drafting table. Go back to sleep, Child."

"Erik, no." She was more fully awake now, and her eyes were worried as she took my icy fingers between her warm, soft palms.

"Please, you must share your room with me. If you do not stay with me, Mr Daroga will know that…Erik, please don't shame me."

What an unconventional little Angel I love. It appeared that Christine preferred my Persian friend believing the lie of our open adultery to the truth of our innocent friendship. I was unsure that I could sort out Christine's logic on this matter when I was in full possession of my faculties, but in my current state, it was utterly impossible. All I knew was that Christine was discomfited, and that if I came to my former quarters with her, it would please and settle her. Thus she led me by the hand. I tucked her into my mother's bed and took the afghan from the foot of the bed. I settled comfortably enough in the wing chair, and closed my eyes.

"Erik," Christine whispered, reaching out her hand to me. "Lie down here with me. You mustn't sleep in the chair like that; I feel dreadful to think of you so uncomfortable."

Does she think I am made of stone, that I can lie unmoved beside her? Am I so entirely inhuman to her?

"Christine, you asked me to stay behind closed doors with you while we sleep; that is enough to satisfy your fears about what my friend may think. I have never required much sleep, and I can sleep most comfortably here. I appreciate your concern, but I am quite fine. Good night, now, my Dear."

"Erik?"

"Yes, Christine."

"Thank you."

"It is my joy and privilege to be of whatever service I may, Comtesse."

Soon Christine's breathing became regular. Rising silently from the chair, I studied the sleeping child briefly. It was a blasphemy for my eyes to look upon this most perfect of human forms; lips gently parted as if awaiting my kiss; arms thrown above her head, freeing her breasts from protection of the coverlet. I had only to take three steps and reach out my hand to touch the flesh of an angel. I raised my hand and beheld the skeletal fingers, snatching me from my lurid fantasy. I knew my flesh to be cold; even if I dared attempt so bestial an act, I could never hope to escape undetected. Sickened by my own depravity, I tore myself from the room.

I retreated to my coffin and removed my mask. I slept tortured, haunted by dreams of Christine's shadowy form, dancing behind a gauzy curtain. Sometimes the curtain would part slightly, and her hand would beckon, reaching for me. 'Erik, lie down here with me,' she called, whirling and undulating. The music was all drums and cymbals; did Christine dance to it, or was it her body itself that created the rhythm? Her laughter was a siren call as she parted the curtain. I took her hand, and instantly, in the bizarre timelessness of dreams, we were lying in each other's arms in a jumble of silken pillows. I recognized the pillows from the harem beds in Persia. I saw that Christine and I were in a splendid walled garden, also in the Persian style: shaded arbors, nectar-sweet flowers, laden fruit trees and murmuring fountains. Christine's eyes shone with love; I shuddered as her lips brushed my ear. 'Erik,' she whispered, 'it wouldn't be like that if you and I were married…'

I was jarred awake, breathless and overheated. I tossed around, attempting to find a comfortable position. Each time I dropped off to sleep, it was the same: Christine called to me, drew me in, teased and welcomed me…and warned me not to touch. The sun was casting a rosy net across the horizon when I abandoned the idea of rest, dressed and went to the kitchen to jolt myself to life with strong Persian coffee.

Darius was already puttering about, so I sat staring blankly at the kitchen table while I sipped my coffee. The daroga was descended upon us much too soon. He was his usual intolerably cheerful self.

"Good Morning! I trust it is a better morning for you, now that your lady love is returned."

"Yes…delightful. The only thing I enjoy more is your company at this hour."

Darius had abandoned us to prepare the dining room for breakfast.

"How are you really, Erik?"

"I'm fine, Mother, dear. Will you leave it?"

"Of course," he sniffed. "I don't know why I worry about you anyway."

We were finishing breakfast; I was reviewing L'Epoque while the daroga and Christine charmed each other.

"Erik, I daresay you are the strangest man I've ever known. Here we have our lovely Comtesse, a charming conversationalist and a delight to behold on a chilly morning, and your nose is stuck in the newspaper."

"I have no nose, daroga," I replied, turning the page. "You do look lovely, as always, my Dear. You resemble…a spring narcissus in that dress, all cream and yellow."

"Thank you, Erik," Christine smiled demurely. Much better than her last performance at the table.

"You see, Reza, I know something of how one treats a woman." I returned to the paper.

"Not the most romantic fellow in Paris, is he?"

"He can be…" Christine replied. I was gratified that she was taking the proper side in this debate.

"My friend, has it ever occurred to you that I may prefer to do my romancing without an audience? And not at the breakfast table, of all things. If you'll excuse me, my Dear."

"Of course," she agreed, eyes downcast.

I retreated to my drawing table. Christine appeared at my elbow several minutes later.

"Erik, he means no harm," she began hesitantly. "I believe he is…happy to see us reunited."

"That is all very well, Christine, but I require neither a chaperone nor a matchmaker. It's a farce, anyway; you're not here for me. The sooner we can dispense with this charade, the better. Precisely when can we dispense with this charade, Christine?" I fumed.

"It isn't a charade, Erik," she insisted, her hand resting on mine. "Not if you want it to be otherwise. Yesterday, you said you still wanted me."

"It is not what I want that is in question here. I have always wanted you; nothing has changed. But whatever sort of detour you and your Comte have encountered on your marital carriage road, you know perfectly well that you'll be here as long as it suits you, and not a moment longer," I spat. Four months is not so very long a time for a heart to mend; if I was self-protective, I felt justified for being so.

Christine frowned and withdrew her hand. Her cheeks pinked with irritation.

"No, Erik, you're wrong. I told you yesterday that I have no intention of returning to Raoul; if you refuse to believe me, that is your choice. I did not just come here because I needed a place to run; if you would put aside your pride for a moment, you'd realize that Madam Giry would gladly take me in. I came looking for you because I want to be with you."

I was moved to hear things I'd never imagined anyone would say to me. Christine's eyes told me that she spoke truly; most importantly, they told me that my verbal assault had wounded her.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. Christine moved closer and raised her face to be kissed.

The sound of someone clearing his throat discreetly in the hall sent us leaping apart like guilty adolescents. Darius advised that we were wanted downstairs. When we joined my Persian friend, Christine gasped and ducked behind me. Her husband and two police officers wheeled on us.

"What do you mean, secreting my wife here, Sir?" the Comte demanded, unduly red-faced. He turned to Christine.

"Collect your things, Christine. This escapade is finished."

"I am staying here, Raoul. I will not return with you," Christine replied adamantly.

De Chagny ignored her protests and glared at me.

"You have spirited a married woman away from her lawful husband for nefarious purposes, Sir. I will have satisfaction."

The daroga stepped between us.

"See here, Comte, if you do not retract your statement, I shall be forced to demand my own satisfaction. You have impugned my honor and that of my house. What do you take me for, Sir, to think that I would aid a man in such a despicable endeavor?"

"What other explanation can there be for the Comtesse's presence here, Sir?" the taller policeman demanded.

"I told you all," Christine insisted. "I came here of my own accord. I have come to seek refuge with my friend here." She took my arm. "Long ago, he pledged himself as my guardian and protector. Now that I have been disappointed in my marriage, I have returned to his care, as is fitting and proper for an orphan such as myself."

"It's a lie! He's brought her here as his lover!" the Comte wailed.

My Persian friend approached the frantic Comte as an uncle would do. He spoke confidentially.

"My dear Comte, I understand what a difficult time this must be for you, and I give you my word as a gentleman that none of what has passed here will ever be divulged to anyone. Perhaps in a few days, the Comtesse will be more kindly disposed toward discussion with you…sometimes the best thing a man can do is let the lady breathe, my boy."

The boy seemed mollified. Nodding, he spoke to no one in particular.

"I retract my earlier statement."

I acknowledged him with a slight nod. As the challenged man, I had the right to name my weapon, and while he is substantially younger than I, still I was confident in my ability to run him through in a swordfight. Ah, well. Perhaps another time.

The Comte turned to his erstwhile bride.

"Christine, won't you please consider…please consider that I love you?"

"I shall, Raoul," she replied non-committally.

The diminished Comte departed with his policemen friends.

Christine heaved a sigh of relief when he they had gone.

"He will probably return, do you think?" she wondered.

"Hm. He seems unconvinced that you would really wish to leave him," I agreed.

The doorbell screamed again. Christine clutched my arm anew. We were all pleasantly surprised when Darius returned nothing but with a special delivery for me.

"Well, here is delightful news," I read. "It appears that yours truly submitted the winning bid for the Louvre job." I laughed heartily. "I am expected in their offices at eleven this morning."

"Welcome back to the working week, my friend!" the daroga laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

I met with my new employers. As aesthetes, they were a bit taken aback by my appearance. Naturally, I had anticipated this and dressed as finely as possible. We opened a discussion on the arts. Shortly, my apparent erudition and obvious qualifications for the job put them at their ease. I had another look at the work area and my architectural juices began to bubble. The first task was to assemble a work crew; I set about finding a foreman immediately. I arranged for an advertisement to be placed in tomorrow's L'Epoque.

I arrived home in a delightful mood, and by some miracle, found Christine alone in the library. She was engrossed in a book, but a daroga-free moment with my angel was too rare and precious a jewel to squander. I decided to press my advantage slightly and see where it took me. I pried a delicate hand from the book. Christine rearranged herself so that she could continue reading one-handed. I kissed each petal-like fingertip; her palm smelled of lilacs. I kissed the back of her hand and made a bracelet of kisses around her wrist before her sleeve thwarted my progress briefly. Undaunted, I continued my journey up her arm, over her shoulder to the tender flesh of her neck. She did not object, but that damnable book…

"Erik…" ah, wonderful; I had been noticed.

"Yes, Angel…"

"Did you know that in legal cases as recently as five years ago, a married woman was judged to be the absolute property of her husband, and thereby entitled to no right of self-determination?"

I admit that my education in these matters is woefully lacking, but this did not sound much like lovemaking talk.

"I did not know that."

Fortunately, my response was sufficient for the time being. Christine slipped a ribbon into the book, marking her place, and turned agreeably into my arms.

"Was it a good day?" she asked, smiling. My little darling was returned to me.

"A very good day, and still improving…" Christine reclined on the sofa, drawing me down with her.

"That is your piano in the parlor, isn't it?" she guessed between kisses.

"Mm." I was beginning to feel rather uncomfortable, in a pleasant way. "Would you like to sing?"

"Mm, but not right now," she confessed.

I found the game we were playing bewildering. Christine seemed content, even eager, to kiss and cuddle indefinitely; perhaps such behavior is more tolerable to the gentle sex. For myself and those of my ilk, however, there comes a point of diminishing returns in the exercise. The enjoyable discomfort was already beginning to metamorphose into an irritating sense of urgency. There was no hope of a satisfactory resolution, if you will, and even as Christine caressed me, I considered the wisdom of initiating such contact in the future. Obviously, I felt constrained against escalating the proceedings; Christine had made her feelings perfectly clear in that regard. Conundrum.

Fortunately, my ubiquitous Persian friend came to my rescue yet again. Imagine being glad of an interruption under such circumstances; how much more bizarre could my life become?

"Oh, I beg your pardon," the daroga let slip. No doubt it was a comic sight as I leapt to my feet and pretended to search for a book while Christine fussed with her hair, smoothed her skirts, and fumbled her book open.

"Not at all," I lied with considerably less than my usual finesse. "I was just recounting my day at the Louvre to the Comtesse…and she was telling me, ah, what was that again, Dear, about absolute property and so on? Fascinating, really."

I could not face my friend; his smirk was too much to bear. However, when I looked at Christine the situation only worsened. She was red as an apple and holding the book upside down, for God's sake.

"Yes," she chirped. "I was saying that only five years ago, a married woman was considered to be the absolute property of her husband and thereby entitled to no right of self-determination—legally speaking."

"Why, that is astonishing," the daroga replied. I was unable to determine whether he was having us on or had a sincere interest in what Christine had revealed.

"Do they mean to say, do you think, that a woman does not belong to herself?" Christine asked.

"I daresay that is precisely what they mean to say. I must admit I'd never given it any thought, but it is quite extraordinary when one encounters it in plain language like that," Reza marveled. He did seem genuinely interested, actually.

"I'm going to work," I announced, and made my exit.

I had not been free an hour when the daroga descended upon me. He entered my room uninvited and settled brazenly in my favorite chair. I could feel his irritating grin as one feels a ray of sunshine burning the back of one's neck.

"What?" I snapped when I could stand it no longer.

"I've been considering, old friend, that we should work up some sort of signal."

"Signal."

"Yes, you know; something which says, 'Look, daroga, we're up to a bit of mischief in here; go away.'" He chuckled.

"How about this: GO AWAY."

"Erik, I believe you are the only man in the world with absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever."

"A sense of humor comes with a face."

"Well, I think it's delightful, you incorrigible grump. You've begun a job you're delighted about and you're in love. It's as if you're nineteen again."

"I was never nineteen," I replied, scribbling away.

"Somehow, I have no trouble believing that."

He sat so silently for several minutes that I actually imagined he might have gone. I should have known better, but I gave a bit of a start when he placed a cognac on my drawing table.

"Thank you—but why are you still here?"

"I'm wondering how the late encounter plays into your role as the—what was it—'kind, gentle, noble lover'?"

"You forgot 'beautiful'. How could you forget 'beautiful'?"

"Ah, yes. 'Beautiful, kind, gentle, and noble'," he intoned. "Erik, I should have married you when I had the chance."

"Yes; sadly, there is only one of me to go around. But, to answer your impertinent question, I was asking myself the same thing; a little more than an hour ago, as a matter of fact. She quite fancies all that aimless fiddling around; seems to have an endless tolerance for it. Small wonder the beautiful boy was at her constantly." I drained my cognac.

"Hm. What do you intend to do?" my friend asked gravely.

"Nothing. That's what I'm allowed, as I understand it."

"No, I mean, about the situation. You can't continue indefinitely in this way. Can you?"

"Well, naturally, I'll give it a bit more study before I make a final determination."

"Naturally," the daroga agreed.

"Of course this all presupposes that the lady in question does not return to Chagny…I believe we have about fifty hours to go before I lose my bet?"

The daroga studied his watch. "About that. But what if she does stay?"

"I'll worry about that in fifty-one hours." I admitted.

I crept into Christine's bedroom early: around midnight. I expected to interview foremen in the morning, and wanted to get an early start. I considered just turning in to my coffin, but I was concerned that she would awaken in the middle of the night again. In spite of the fact that she'd seen me unmasked, I preferred not to have her creeping up on me stretched out in my box, asleep and faceless. So I settled in the chair again; it was not so terrible. The room smelled like Christine, and just knowing she was near was compensation enough for a bit of stiffness in my back in the morning.

In sleep, Christine had embraced a pillow. I studied her for a moment. That could be me, I mused. If I'd lain down with her as she invited me to last night, she could be cuddled up against me right now. Wouldn't that be restful? Nooo, but wouldn't it be heavenly?

Alright…she'll be gone in two days, back to her life of privilege. She'll have those babies dutifully, absolute property that she is, and I'll never see her again. Alright.

It must have taken me a full ten minutes to lower my cadaver onto the bed without disturbing the sleeping angel. I scooted behind her as closely as possible and placed my arm around her, slipping my hand between Christine and her pillow friend. I pressed what passed for my nose into the nest of her curls and closed my eyes. Yes, I slept; it was restful, much to my surprise. I had never felt so at home, so peaceful anywhere. I constructed a delightful fantasy as I dropped off to sleep; that it was Christine and I who were four months married. We were asleep in our sweet little bed in our cozy little house, already hopeful of having started a perfect little baby—one of many we longed for. My desires are not so grotesque and fiendish after all. They are the simple moments of life that likely flutter past most men unnoticed. I wished I could have slipped away from this life with little Christine asleep in my arms, but it was not to be. I did awake in the morning, and I found that I had no remorse over the memory I'd stolen.

"I am going to the library today, Erik, may I bring you anything?" Christine looked especially radiant at breakfast. Her dress was the same blue as her eyes, and the wide white cuffs showed off her delicate, graceful hands.

"Thank you, no, Angel. I am hiring a foreman today; I fear there is not much leisure for reading in my future."

Christine approached my chair and slid her warm hands onto my shoulders. My friend pretended to be engrossed in L'Epoque.

"Oh, dear. I'm afraid I won't see you at all once this project begins, if you work at this as you compose!" Christine worried.

"But the workers must have Sunday off, Christine. I will see you on Sunday, and I expect to be home for supper most nights." I chuckled. "You are sounding like a proper little wife."

She kissed my ear.

"I am a proper little wife," she smiled, "if I say I am."

"I see. Wouldn't the Pope have something to say about that?" I wondered.

"Hmph," she sniffed. "No doubt he would consider me absolute property, too. Ah well, I'm off."

The daroga and I watched her breeze from the room. She left the scent of lilacs behind.

"Remarkable young woman," my friend murmured.

"Mm-hm," I concurred.

"Erik, how do you suppose such a charming creature takes it into her pretty head that she belongs to herself, alone, and can bestow and reclaim herself however she sees fit?" he wondered.

"I don't know, but I am no fool. Happy beneficiary that I am, I say well done, little Christine, declaring your emancipation from marital tyranny."

"You'll sing a different tune when she goes independent on you," the daroga cautioned.

"I've always been hers to command utterly, and she bears no illusions about it. If ever she defers to me, it is merely out of good form," I replied dryly.

"We shall see what we shall see," Reza intoned. "Look, old friend, would you be so good as to let me know where and when you've scheduled this afternoon's intrigue? I'd like not to intrude on you lovebirds again," he grinned.

"I had thought we might have a go right here on the table, or is that a bit much, do you think? You fiendish voyeur," I grumbled. I left him laughing, the old fool.

I trudged through five candidates before I found my foreman. He was a bullish fellow named Jules who regarded me with great suspicion initially. This made me like him right off.

"You're the architect?" he peered at me skeptically.

"I am."

He eyed my rather fine clothes; I knew what he was thinking. I gave him a rundown of my career sufficiently detailed to persuade him that I knew what I was about. He grunted with approval, I believe, when I was finished. In return, he described his work experience for me.

"What's the mask for, then?" he demanded.

"I'm ugly."

"So am I."

"No, I was born wrong," I elaborated.

"Can I see?"

"No."

Jules shrugged his assent. I knew we'd get on splendidly. Suddenly I had the sense that I was applying for the job; was I qualified to be his boss?

"Right. I'll do it, if you want," he growled.


	4. Chapter 4

"Good morning, my dear Comtesse. How delightful it is to enjoy our fourth breakfast together." My friend the Persian comedian was beaming; I had just produced the thousand francs I owed him, having lost the bet that Christine would have returned to her hot-blooded Comte by now.

"Good morning, Mr Daroga," Christine was a glorious sight in a lavender dressing gown. She offered me her hand, which I kissed; in her turn she kissed me just below my ear.

"Are you ill, my Dear?" I worried about the dressing gown.

"Oh, no. I'm staying in today," she rewarded my concern with a glowing smile and stroked my cheek affectionately.

"Comtesse, if I may…since you'll obviously be staying with us…'daroga' is not a name. It is rather a job title. I would be grateful if you would call me 'Reza'; it is my given name."

"Oh, I'm so sorry…Reza—then you must call me Christine, will you please?

"I am honored, Christine."

"Aren't we all cozy and informal this morning," I growled.

Christine was nonplussed.

"Erik and I had a little wager, Christine. If he is a bit ill-tempered this morning, it is because he had to pay up."

"Oh? What was the wager about?"

"Nothing important, just a bit of sport between old friends," he smiled benignly.

"Well, you needn't be cross with me over it," Christine popped me on the head lightly. Oh yes I do, I thought; at the rate it's going, I'll never get my thousand francs' worth out of you.

It was the end of the workday; Jules and I had an impromptu meeting on the street and I hailed a cab.

"May I offer you a ride home, Sir? I would have a word with you, if I may." I recognized the voice, and frankly could not believe the boy's effrontery.

"Thank you, no, Comte de Chagny. I prefer to walk." Unless you would like to lie in the street in front of your carriage.

"Please, sir, I beg you for some news of my wife." No sir; my wife.

"I am not your spy. If you want news of Christine, send word to her yourself."

"I attempted to call on her earlier today, but she refuses me."

"Well then, I believe you have your answer. Good day."

"I tell you, Sir, if the circumstances were reversed, I would not refuse you this kindness!"

He turned pleading eyes on me. I suspect they work to good effect on a certain type of girl; one that is inordinately fond of puppies and farm animals.

"Well then, my young friend, you are indeed the better man, because irrespective of the circumstances, I still find you unworthy of the powder to blow you to hell. Furthermore, I respectfully suggest that you find a way to stop thinking of her as your wife, because I assure you that she no longer considers herself as such. I could have almost liked you when you wanted to kill me; now, you're pathetic."

I gave him my back.

"You fiend!" he shouted. "How could she want you?"

When I turned, the look on his face suggested that he was seeing me unmasked. Perhaps, in a way, he was.

"You just haven't seen me at my best, Raoul," I winked. "I'm quite the ladies' man."

I felt much better after that; nearly cheerful. It almost compensated me for the thousand francs. I purchased a bouquet for Christine from a terrified little flower girl.

Darius informed me that Christine was in the library. Before knocking, I removed my cravat and slipped it over the door knob, just in case luck was with me. Reza would be delighted, I smiled. Christine was deep in her books again. This time there was an entire stack of them, and a pot of tea, and a half-nibbled biscuit. I had to shove the tulips in her face before she was alerted to my presence.

"Oh! You're home already?" she slid the book onto the floor and smiled at the flowers.

"Shall I leave?"

"Of course not; time flies, that's all."

"Have you been in here all day?" I marveled.

"Mm hm."

"Good heavens, my little scholar. Whatever are you up to?"

"Trying to find out precisely what rights I do have, as a woman."

Oh dear. "And?" I drew her in for a cuddle. She draped her arms comfortably around my neck. She has a little dimple over her left eyebrow that she gets when she's thinking. It's adorable.

"None, actually, I think. I don't appear to exist, except in relation to a man; a father, a husband, a brother, a son, a lover."

Ah. Perhaps this was my opportunity to steer the conversation in a more pleasant direction. Still inflammatory; just in a more personal way.

"Is that so terrible, really?" I nuzzled her neck.

"What are you doing?" I could hear the smile in her voice.

"Whatever I may…"

She laughed and pushed her notebook and assorted debris off the sofa. Rearranging some pillows, she reclined comfortably.

"Take off your coat, Erik. And your waistcoat. And come here."

"I'm afraid I'm rather heavy, Angel," I worried.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "You feel good." She was doing something distressing; drawing my shirt out of my trousers. Oh. Dear. Christine's lovely hands, stroking my back. It seems like a trivial contact, but my body was a desert; her fingertips, rain.

"Mmm," she settled finally and let me kiss her. I kissed her throat; I kissed until the ruffle of her chemise made me stop.

"Christine." I tried to draw away.

"Erik." She would not let me.

"Chris-TEEN." I squirmed.

"ER-ik." She squirmed. It had an unexpected effect. I had to get away. I tore myself from her grasp, which startled her.

"Christine, I have the distinct impression that you're rather enjoying this," I grumbled, gathering my things.

"Aren't you?" she asked, missing my point.

"I mean, you're enjoying my obvious distress," I accused.

"No I'm not," she insisted.

"Well then, stop it. I thought we were being all noble, anyway!" I made my escape.

I sulked through dinner. Christine and her 'dear Reza' nattered on about Women's Rights, for God's sake—as if an old Persian lecher gives a fig for Women's Rights or Women's Lefts. Christine kept trying to draw me into the conversation: 'Don't you think, Erik?' I just shoved my peas around.

"Oh, let him be, my Dear."

'My Dear', now that's a bit much, wouldn't you say? She's my little concubine, after all.

"You'll come to ignore his black moods in time, as I have. If you don't find the humor in it, he can be quite hurtful. You must learn to see him for the overgrown child he is," he chuckled. "If you give him attention when he's like this, he'll only sulk longer. Now, you were saying…"

"Well, I was saying…" Christine cast another glance at me. "I think the only way for women to be regarded as full human beings is for us to have suffrage."

I choked as politely as I could.

"The vote, my Dear?" the daroga marveled.

"Yes, of course." Christine was holding her head in that defiant little way she has, all spoiling for a fight. But my Persian friend does not argue with ladies, whether they consider themselves to be equal citizens with men or not.

"It's quite a paradox, isn't it? I would argue that women must be regarded as full human beings before they could possibly be granted the vote," another benign smile from the old Persian fiend.

"Well, you see, Reza, that's just the problem: you said 'granted' the vote."

"So I did," he agreed.

"How does it happen that any man must 'grant' me the vote? How did my right to vote come to be in his hands?"

"Well, it's simply the way of things, my Dear. Men must run things."

"Why? Do you believe that any man is more intelligent than any woman? More clever? More capable?"

"No, of course not. You, for example, are quite the bright little thing."

"So you might say that I am more clever than some man?"

"Oh, yes, most definitely so," he agreed.

"And yet that man votes, and if he is unmarried, he needn't remain under his mother or sister's care."

"But it's for your protection, my Dear. Surely you see that, as the more delicate sex, you need protection, patronage. Women…bear children, after all."

"Yes; that's another thing. I believe it is critical that we find a reliable way for women to control their childbearing."

Christine actually said this; right at the dinner table. I shot Bordeaux through my nose. For once I was glad there was not more of it; it stung wickedly.

Reza chuckled avuncularly, stroked his mustache. I could see he was gearing up to patronize Christine somehow, when what she really needed was to be disabused of these ridiculous notions as quickly and firmly as possible.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," I interrupted. "This is the most patently absurd thing I've ever been privileged to hear. 'Women control their childbearing', indeed. As if this was suitable conversation for the dinner table, Christine!"

"I'm not talking about anything shameful, Erik. We're adults here, we all know where babies come from."

"Alright, I'll play along, then. You ladies are all in complete control of your reproductive…ah, functions. What do you propose that all these childless women do with themselves all day?" I demanded.

"What do men do all day?"

"Work, generally speaking."

"Women can work."

"Of course they can; no one said they couldn't. You have cooks, seamstresses, and laundresses, maids and governesses, and dancers, and—"

"Yes; they're all mother's jobs that they get paid to do for others. They're not real jobs—even dancing or singing, they're not real jobs, not serious jobs."

"What sort of serious job would you like, Christine? Would you like to hitch up your skirts and don trousers, come down under the Louvre with me and hammer away at stone? All ninety pounds of you, wielding a hammer? Hm?" I scoffed.

"No, I'm not strong enough for that," she admitted.

"Well, I'm delighted you still admit of some difference between the sexes."

"But I could do your job, if I had the training. I could be an architect."

"You most certainly could not!"

"Erik…" my dear friend was trying to save me walking into the lioness' den. Sadly, I did not realize until it was too late…

"No, no, no, daroga, now, let me have my say," I cut him off likethe simpleton I was."Christine. Architecture demands a knowledge of maths, spatial relationships, engineering, geometry, drafting—it's a nice idea, Darling, but…no."

"You still haven't given me a reason why." Her lovely lip pouted ever so slightly; it made advancing a well-reasoned argument difficult.

"Alright: spatial relationships, for one. Everyone knows women can't gauge size or distance to save their pretty little heads. How far is it, Darling, from where we're sitting right now, to the curb, would you say?"

In the ensuing silence, the daroga tried once again to steer me from the precipice with a pointed look, but I waved him off

"Um, fifty meters," she guessed finally, blushing.

"Ah! There, you see?" I cried, triumphant. "Fifty meters, did you hear that? You're off by more than half again—wouldn't you say, Reza? I'm guessing its twenty meters, certainly not more than twenty five. Women just cannot do these things, Darling. It's no criticism…what an unlovely world we'd have if women were just like men." I smiled.

"I guessed incorrectly because I haven't been taught to do such things. If I was taught and I practiced, as you have, I could guess it just as well as you," Christine replied quietly.

"No, Christine. Look, how much fabric is in a typical woman's dress?" I asked.

"It depends. If you have bell sleeves—"

"No, no, never mind all that. Just answer the question, a typical woman's dress," I insisted.

"For what size woman?"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake, just a regular woman-sized woman. Not a big fat woman, why would I care how much sailcloth it takes to cover a cow?" I chuckled.

"I guess about ten to twelve yards, depending upon the style."

"There, ten to twelve yards, very well. You see, you can render a fine estimate about the things that matter to you, and that is entirely as it should be. Let the men worry about the stuff of building bridges and all that nonsense, Darling. Women don't care about such things, and I say, why should you? You're here to add beauty and grace to the world, not to sweat and measure and decide politics."

I thought I'd done rather well for myself, and my sex, actually. Sometimes one never hears the train coming at all.

"I see. Thank you for that, Erik; I do see your point now. I wonder if you gentlemen would excuse me."

We stood.

"Oh, Erik? I'm just going to dress and collect my things. If you could help me with my bags in about an hour, and hire me a cab?"

"I beg your pardon, Christine?"

"Well, you would never agree that I am capable of taking the independent decision to leave Raoul and return to you. So you must think I've done it at Raoul's bidding…and I know how you feel about him. You'd want no part of that, so I'd best leave."

"Raoul sent you to me? That's ridiculous, Christine!"

"Yes it is. So who do you suppose made the decision?" She was very pink.

"You did, of course!"

"So it was a trivial, dress-making decision."

"No…"

"It was an important, manly decision."

"…It was important…but I wouldn't say manly…" I am ashamed to admit that it was at this late juncture that I finally began to see just how poorly things were actually going.

"Well, which is it, Erik? You're just like a woman; can't make up your mind to save your pretty little head."

My Persian friend grabbed my arm and escorted me into the parlor before I had an opportunity to utter another sound.

"Cognac is wanted, my friend."

"What just happened, daroga?"

"Train wreck."

"Ah."

"You rock head. If you had even a little more experience with women, you'd have seen it coming and kept your mouth shut. I did try…" the daroga huffed.

"You did indeed. You are a dear friend."

"Yes, I am. Are you bleeding, by the way?"

"Not that I can tell, but I do feel a bit woozy."

"That would be your masculine pride deserting you. Just sit down; it will pass. Here."

I downed the cognac in a gulp. "More," I gasped.

"No, you'll want all your wits about you should you have to step back into the ring tonight."

"I had all my wits about me just a moment ago! I was sober as a judge and look where it led! You don't suppose she'll really leave, do you?" I worried.

"Well, you know her better than I, but I would guess not. I believe the aim was to teach you a lesson. We'll have to work out what that was, because it will likely come up."

"What?"

"What you've learnt. At some point, you'll be expected either to say 'I've learnt my lesson', or respond affirmatively to 'I trust you've learnt your lesson, Erik'. Likely she will expect you to elaborate on what you've learnt as part of your penance."

"Do you reckon there should be flowers in this bargain? My penance, I mean." I know they like flowers.

"I think it went past flowers when you took off on that 'how many meters to the curb' jag."

"Ooh." I winced. "Tickets to the ballet?"

"That might do, but first you've got to persuade her that you don't think she's just a pretty little doll put on earth solely for your diversion."

"How would I do that?"

"Since when do I look like a married man to you? Go ask your friend the Comte! How should I know?"

"What do you mean, you don't know?" I panicked.

"I mean that you are on your own. Are you going to sleep on it, or handle it tonight?"

"I can't sleep on it; I must go to work in the morning. Right, well, I'd best head up into the lion's den now. What have I learnt, daroga?"

"You tell me."

"Never discuss politics with a woman."

"True, but no."

"Never ask a woman a measurement question."

"No."

"Perhaps I should tell her that I think women should have the vote."

"Good; but if you're insincere, she'll sniff it out."

"I could just beg for mercy and let her lecture me. I could say something like, 'I don't understand, but I want to.' What do you think?"

Reza considered a moment. "If you can keep your mouth shut, regardless of what sort of preposterous nonsense she spouts, that may serve. Remember, you've already proved once tonight that you can't keep your mouth shut."

"I do hate to be crude, daroga, but this seems like an awful lot of trouble for a woman who…well…expects me to love her nobly."

He nodded his agreement. "It would be more trouble than it's worth, I suspect, if it were anyone but Christine."


	5. Chapter 5

I was unable to wheedle another cognac for courage, so I climbed the stairs to my doom. I rapped softly on the door.

"Christine, will you speak with me? I'm don't really know what I said that was wrong. You know I don't think you're a silly, empty-headed girl, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Will you speak with me?"

"Yes, but not here. I'll come to the library."

"Alright." Whatever that meant.

When Christine joined me, the first thing she did was open one of the books she'd been reading. "Look at this book, Erik," she demanded, holding it out to me. "This is not some penny dreadful. It has large, complicated words; some of these books are legal discussion; I can follow these arguments."

"Of course you can, Angel, I don't dispute that. I know you're not stupid."

"But you think I can't be an architect, for example. You think I don't have a head for complicated things. You think I can't make my own choices, do you? Not really."

"Christine. Why do you want to be an architect?"

"That's not the point, Erik; just pretend I wanted to. Do you think just because I have breasts—"

"Hush, child!"

"That I can't be an architect?"

"Christine…if you wanted to be an architect…I suppose you could be. It's just that…women are better at…womanly things."

"What are womanly things?"

"You know perfectly well what womanly things are, Christine. This is becoming absurd. Is there something I'm supposed to be apologizing for, or not?"

"Yes. You're supposed to be apologizing for telling me that I'm some kind of relatively mindless decoration; that I'm only here to make life more comfortable for you, to be pretty, and agreeable, and available."

Available? I beg your pardon.

"AVAILable? What exactly do you mean by available? Have I laid a hand on you, Madame? Have I in any way—" I was livid.

"I'm speaking generally, Erik. I mean that, as a man, you think women in general are decorative caretakers and not capable of much else."

"This really isn't fair, you know. Do you know how much experience of women I actually have?" Not the sort of thing one usually enjoys admitting to, but under the circumstances, I thought it might aid my cause to plead ignorance.

"Yes. Not much."

"That is correct."

"Erik, you know that if Raoul won't divorce me, there's nothing I can do about it. Do you suppose that is fair? Shouldn't I be able to escape a man I don't want? What if he was mistreating me?"

"Mistreating you how?" I went livid again.

"No, I just said, 'what if'. He didn't mistreat me…unless you count…"

"Yes, yes."

"Well, is it fair?"

"No."

"That is why I think it would be good if women could vote. We could vote for men who support women being able to obtain divorces, for example. Eventually, there would be women running for political office, and then we could vote for them. Women could actually work to improve women's lives!"

She lost me at 'women being able to obtain divorces'. I pictured muscle-bound harridans running amuck, divorcing their pathetic husbands willy-nilly whenever the poor men complained about dinner being burnt. And, women running for political office? On what platform? Flowers every Friday? Drunkenness a capital offense? It was so incongruous that it was no problem at all for me to keep my mouth shut. Women voting and running for office, indeed—just after I'm named Handsomest Man in Paris. Let her have her fun, if it'll get me back in her good graces.

"I think that's fine, Darling. You know, of course…what a long way to go this suffrage idea has? That's not me speaking, that's just…"

"Yes, I know." Christine smiled and approached me; I flinched. How was I to know I'd redeemed myself so easily? "Erik…" she drew my forehead down to hers and draped her arms around my neck. I felt guilty about the exceptional view this afforded me…for a moment. "I don't like to argue with you. Let's not argue anymore."

"Fine with me," I agreed.

"Would you like make up properly?" she led me to the sofa. "Oh, you tucked your shirt in; why?"

"I could hardly come to the dinner table looking like that." I helped her make me look disreputable again.

"Erik…take it off?"

"You mean off, off?" I was nonplussed.

"Mm hm."

"How would you feel about going upstairs then?" Complicated negotiations, these.

"Alright…..but tuck back in and make sure no one sees us going up there together."

We snuck upstairs undetected. Why the stealth was necessary I cannot guess. Once we were safely inside, Christine pressed me against the door and drew my shirt off, giggling. "Erik, take your mask off."

"Christine, no."

"Erik…" she kicked her slippers off and drew me toward the bed. Her eyes looked like a lover's; I'd never seen them like that before. I stretched out with Christine, and she removed my mask without the least concern for what I would say.

"Hush," she whispered. "Turn down the light if you like."

"But then I can't see you," I reminded her. She drew me close and her laughter was like chimes in a springtime breeze. Her fingers traced magical symbols on my skin; I felt myself drawing strength and life from them. When we kissed, it was only love. For a moment, I saw that Christine was right; something beautiful and noble was there—but it was something glimpsed only on the periphery. When I turned my full attention to it to examine it more closely, it skittered away; autumn leaves in my mind's eye.

In the next moment the desire returned, stronger than ever. However I moved, Christine pressed tightly against me. She was so warm; as our kisses deepened I was unsure whether it was her heat I was taking on, or whether I burned of my own accord.

In no time the ugly conundrum returned. It crept onto my shoulder and sat where it could whisper in my ear.

'Move your hands.'

--No, I can't.

'She's going to take you for a simpleton if you don't make a move soon.'

--She doesn't want that from me. I have to show her I'm different.

'But you're not, you're worse than that boy.'

--Look, piss off, will you? I'm trying to focus on the girl.

'If you want to focus on the girl, listen: there's only a handful of buttons on her dressing gown; have done with that, and it's just a wispy little gown between you and heaven.'

--Leave it, will you? Whose side are you on?

'Why, yours; if ever you'd had a woman you'd know that. How long do you imagine you can stand this, anyway? You're fit to burst now."

--I'm well aware of that, thanks.

'So what's your plan then?'

--I don't have one. Yet.

'Brilliant. The dressing gown, I tell you!'

Christine came to my rescue, thankfully. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she had her own little she-conundrum on her pale, smooth shoulder.

"Erik, I'm so warm…I fear I'll faint if I don't…"

I slipped away to give her some room. She was taking off her dressing gown, god help me. My conundrum screamed 'Go go go go!'; and I did. Right out the door. Left my mask behind and everything. I had to run into my drawing room to fetch a replacement mask and shirt. Then it was down for a cognac, or two, or eight. The conundrum browbeat me all the way down the stairs, so I sang a little song to help me ignore it.

Naturally, with the entire house to wander in, my inquisitive friend would have to be in the parlor with the cognac.

"Singing! Well, you look none the worse for wear…hold on, are you still in trouble?"

I downed a cognac.

"You're still in trouble. What did you say?" he groaned.

"Nothing. Different trouble."

"Different trouble?"

I nodded, falling into the chair with the bottle and snifter.

"We've reconciled from the debacle at dinner."

"How the devil did you manage to step in it again so quickly, Erik? That's simply amazing, even for you."

"It's reconciliation trouble, you might say," I hedged.

"Reconciling should be no trouble at all, my friend. That's the whole point," the daroga grinned.

"Yes, well, it wouldn't be trouble for anyone but Sir Galahad, would it?" I snapped, downing another drink.

"I fear all this virtue and continence is making you even more ill-tempered than normal, god forbid."

"I would agree with that assessment," I replied, mildly.

"Whatever shall I do with you, Erik?"

"I don't give a damn what YOU do with me, if you'll excuse me!"

"Right, hour fifty-one has come and gone, and you've obviously not come up with a plan for, ah, handling this."

"Ha. Ha."

"I've been giving your little romance some thought, my friend."

"Then you're even more pathetic than I."

"I happen to find myself with some time on my hands. You're not as available for conversation as you once were. I think you're going to have to sit down and discuss your situation like a pair of adults. I realize it will be a stretch for you, but Christine is very patient with you; I'm sure she'll help you through."

"Tell me again how we came to be friends. I knew once, but at the moment I find myself wondering why I haven't hanged you yet."

"Look here, Erik, I understand there's some pride involved in confessing that you're just like any other man in some of the more mundane respects, but what choice do you have?"

I sulked and had another cognac.

"What are you afraid of? That she'll say no?"

"Yes. And that she'll say yes—if you laugh I'll go upstairs and get my rope, by God!"

"What sort of savage do you take me for, man? Here you are, confessing your most intimate fears--I'm not about to laugh at you in the midst of such a delicate conversation! I'll wait til you've left the room, of course."

"You know, I'm beginning to feel a bit drunk. This is pleasant…I may not even recall killing you in the morning."

"So what precisely is your situation at this moment, if I may ask? Are you in trouble or not?"

"I suspect I am. I sort of ran away."

"Ran away."

"Yes, you know," I groused defiantly. "Like a rabbit who hears the hounds."

"Why don't you go back up there and have a little chat with the hound? It seems to be a good communication day for you two—at least verbally speaking."

"No. She's…no."

"Good heavens, man, it's one little girl. She won't bite!" Reza scolded.

"That's what you know!"

"She won't bite terribly hard, then. Go."

The combination of two more cognacs and Reza's prodding convinced me that I could face Christine again and not botch it up. Had I been more sober I would have been more properly cynical. Now that I think of it, the problem was that my sobriety did not make it upstairs with me.

Happily, Christine opened the door looking more embarrassed and dejected than angry. She had changed into a bed gown. She held the door open for me and I wobbled into the room. She waited for me to speak.

"Christine!" I announced.

"Yes, Erik?"

I'm feeling a bit…"

"Yes?"

"Drunk!"

"Oh." Doubtless that was not what she expected. It wasn't what I intended, either, but this is what comes of coming unprepared and inebriated into a woman's bedroom.

"Shall I tuck you in?" she suggested. My little angel…how kind she is to me.

"Yes!" I declared.

"Come along then, over here." She helped me out of my new mask and shirt. She moved to help me out of my trousers, but I roared "Remember yourself, Madame!" and she backed off. I fell over and she pulled the covers up over me.

"Christine," I murmured.

"I'm right here."

"Come under these little blankets and cuddle up with Erik," I smiled drowsily. She complied sweetly. I kissed her forehead and enfolded her in my arms. With my cognac courage, I began stroking her back, each stroke longer than the last.

"Comfortable?" I purred…or slurred.

"Mm hm," I felt her smile against my arm. My stroking continued.

"Erik."

"Yes, darling."

"If you dare touch my bottom in your state, I'll break your arm."


	6. Chapter 6

I awoke with a headache which extended to my knees. Unable to face even the idea of solid food, I dragged my marginal self to work. It was another hellish day. I was looking forward to getting home to a soak in the tub and deep gulps of peaceful silence.

As soon as I entered the foyer, I knew something was horribly awry. There was a riot of unnaturally colored parasols drying just inside the door. Half a dozen colognes fought tooth and claw for dominion over my unhappy olfactory nerves. It made my eyes water. A cacophony of titters and chirps squeezed under the parlor door. I scuttled to the kitchen in blind panic. Darius was fixing tea in two batches; one batch of two cups, and another of SIX cups…

My perverse friend found some humor in my horrified expression as I made a quick calculation.

"Daroga, there are not six women in the parlor…are there?"

"Oh yes, five and Christine," he beamed.

"What in blazes are they doing there? Who admitted them? Why do you have that…inane grin on your face?"

"I think it's delightful, the sound of feminine voices and laughter. It brings the house to life."

"Next you'll be telling me you want children and puppies gamboling about."

"I am looking forward to being a doting uncle. You and Christine must get on with it."

"Ah, Darius, have you a little extra ground glass for the daroga's tea? What the devil are they doing?"

"I believe they're discussing the suffrage issue. Apparently, Christine put a little something on the notice board at the library, and what do you know but five women have already responded!"

"Five already, marvelous. Sweet suffering Christ, Reza!" I shouted. Wincing, I grabbed my poor head. "I think you've finally gone certifiable. You've got five marauding man-haters in your parlor, and my impressionable little Christine—"

"Who happens to be the ring leader…"

"Bite your tongue, Sir!"

"They don't look like man-haters, Erik, they're quite delightful. You don't like women very much, do you?"

"I like women every bit as much as the next man, but I'm not dotty about them like you are. I've a healthy respect for the amount of havoc they can wreak in a man's life—something you would do well to bear in mind before you admit a battalion again."

"You're handy enough with a saber, Erik. You'll protect us should the Amazons attack."

"I am going to have a bath. Darius, do not bother to rouse me for dinner until the house is clear. I'm going to have a little chat with Christine tonight and disabuse her of this…rabble-rousing, organizing crusade she thinks she's off on," I growled, draining my tea.

"Erik, you're still recovering from the last disabusing you attempted to give her! Don't you remember the bright lights and the loud horn as you lay tied to the tracks?"

"This Women's Rights craze has gone entirely too far. She'll be trading her skirts for trousers if this keeps up."

"I doubt the Comtesse would characterize it as a craze. She seems quite sincere."

"Right, and it's a fine way for her to fill her afternoons and amuse herself until I return home, but I'm damned if she's going to have them swarming all over our peaceful home and holding public rallies and god knows what else. It's scandalous, I won't stand for it."

I stomped up to the bath. Christine had brought an assortment of potions with which she'd hopelessly cluttered the bath. Most of them smelled like Malmaison in the spring, but one of the labels said something about 'relaxing and soothing'. I decided to toss a bit of the mysterious concoction into the steaming tub before I lowered my corpse into it. It smelled of lavender and was foamy. So long as no one invaded my privacy, all would be well. If I was seen, I would have to drown myself and my shame in lavender-scented bath water. It was actually quite pleasant. I can understand why the frivolous little creatures could become addicted to foamy, fragrant baths. One cannot, however, be addicted to such things as foamy, fragrant baths and expect to be permitted to vote and hold public office. I soaked, dozed, nursed my headache, and prepared my lecture for Christine.

A knock on the door.

"Darius, are they gone?"

"Erik? May I come in?"

"Christine? You most certainly may not come in!"

She came in anyway.

"Chris-TEEN! God's blood!"

"Oh, Erik, don't be silly, I'm not going to look at you. Besides, you're all covered up in—what is that?"

She approached the tub to sniff the foam. I screamed like a girl.

"Is that my lavender bath salts?"

"No! Christine, go away!"

She tossed a hand towel into the tub.

"Just cover yourself and stop fussing! Erik, I couldn't wait to tell you, I had the most wonderful day! Here, sit up, I'll scrub your back. I posted a little notice at the library, in case anyone else was interested in forming a women's studies group. Erik, sit up."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because as I recall, Comtesse, I was prohibited from touching your bottom last night. I won't have you touching mine, thank you very much."

"You were drunk as a lord, and I had quite enough of that in my lawful marriage bed, thank you. If you're sober, you can touch my bottom all you like. Anyway, I'm not after your skinny bottom, you silly boy; I'm just scrubbing your back. Backs get neglected, and it feels nice when they finally get scrubbed."

I was still back on the part about how I could touch her bottom all I liked if I was sober. I was sober right now. I was…several things…sober among them. Christine was determined to scrub my back, forcing me to lean forward.

"So when I went to the library, I found there were five names already! Well, I contacted them all and we had our first study group—here! Today!"

"Yes. I heard."

"Oh, you should have come in and met them, Erik, they're the most delightful women!" Christine was scrubbing away enthusiastically. First my back, then my neck, now one arm, now the other.

"Hmph."

"We're compiling an entire list of things we plan to explore: the vote, legal issues such as divorce and inheritance, equal rights in marriage, children, women working outside the home, health—"

"Christine, will you please stop?"

"You don't want to hear about this?" she asked, offended.

"No, I want you to stop scrubbing me."

"Oh. Oh. Sorry," she blushed and wandered over to the towel rack to dry her hands.

She squeaked when Darius knocked on the door.

"For god's sake, Christine, hush! That's all that nosy Persian needs, to learn that we're bathing together. Thank you, Darius, I'll be down directly," I called.

"You're such a prude, Erik. Shall I help you dry off?" she asked, snatching up all the towels on the rack.

"You wicked girl, leave me in peace. I'll see to you later," I threatened.

"Erik, you smell lovely," Reza smiled when I joined them downstairs.

"Thank you very much, but I didn't get all pretty for you."

"I'm crushed, but I guessed as much."

During dinner, Christine regaled us with more tales of her Women's Studies group.

"And what are you all planning to do with all this knowledge you accumulate, Christine? Is this simply for your self-edification, or…?" the daroga asked.

"We have to discuss that further," Christine replied. "We most definitely want to find a way to disseminate the information to as many women as possible. I think it would wonderful to begin a network of study groups, I would love to see women all over France learning all they can. We can't plan for where we want to go in the future if we're not well informed about exactly where we are now."

"Today France, tomorrow the world," I cracked.

"What does that mean?" Christine asked. "Oooh, frangipane tart!" Somehow, I couldn't feel too concerned about Women's Rights as long as Christine could be driven to raptures over dessert, but I still felt I wanted to clarify a few points with her.

"It means that I have no problem with you having your little ladies' club, but I do hope you're not going to turn into some strident Amazon; it's unlovely."

"Little ladies club? We're not playing cards or doing needlework, Erik. We're discussing ways to bring women up to equal citizenship with men. This is not a frivolous exercise. And how would I become a strident Amazon, just by asking for my due?"

"Oh, I do hope we don't have an encore of last night," my Persian friend worried. "I don't believe my poor old nerves can take it."

"Don't worry, Reza. I refuse to have another battle with Erik tonight. He smells much too pretty to argue with," Christine wrinkled her nose at me invitingly. "Will you excuse us please?"

"Of course."

Christine led me from the room like a day-old lamb as Reza smiled at us like a simpleton.

"What's going on here, precisely, Christine?" I asked.

"We're going upstairs to have a bit of privacy."

We kicked off our shoes and sat back on the bed together. She held my hand.

"You were quite drunk last night," she smiled.

"I'm sorry about that, Christine. I was talking with the daroga, and the drink got away from me. It's not a habit, I'm not a drunkard, Christine. If you're worried about it, I swear to you that's not the case, I swear it."

"I believe you, Erik, please don't worry about it. I know you're not a drunkard. You were rather adorable, actually. Do you remember?"

"I remember that you threatened me if I touched your bottom. "

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Oh, well then…you said the sweetest things to me."

"Really."

"Mm. You told me that the fragrance of my hair makes you drunk. You said my laughter is like chimes in spring breeze. You told me that you curl up and sleep with me sometimes, and that you have wonderful dreams about us. You said you wanted to touch me so much that your fingers burned, and that you had to run away because you wanted to kiss me all over."

"I didn't mean that…it was the cognac talking." My face was burning. Bad enough to be drunk, but to be stupidly, garrulously drunk was doubly humiliating.

"What didn't you mean? My hair doesn't make you drunk? My laughter—"

"No, no, I meant that…"

"What then, Erik?"

"I didn't mean the… uncouth things I said. I apologize."

"But, what if I didn't think it was uncouth?" She began kissing my fingertips. "You don't really want to kiss me all over?" Christine stretched out on the bed, tugging on my sleeve.

"Of course I want to kiss you all over…" I grumbled.

"You'd better make a start, then." She made me kiss her; she wouldn't let me go. "Your fingers don't really burn? Erik?"

"They do now," I admitted.

"I know a way to cool them," she offered. Her breath in my ear gave me an exquisite frisson. And Reza was wrong; she did bite. It was delightful. Christine guided my fingers to the uppermost button on her dress.

I was feeling tremendously confused, undeniably aroused, and exceedingly mistreated. I drew away and sat up.

"Now see here, Christine, if this is what equal rights for women is all about, I want no part of it. Why are you doing this to me?" I demanded mournfully.

"What do you mean?" the she-devil had a look on her face as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

"What do you mean, 'what do you mean'? Do you recall what you said the first day you came here, or did I imagine the entire episode?"

"I said a lot of things. I said I wanted to stay with you, that I was leaving my marriage…"

"Yes, and you said if you and I were married, it would be different between us…"

"Yes, I remember that. It is different, don't you agree? I'm so much happier here with you, Erik. Now won't you come back here?"

"You're deliberately missing the point, Christine," I accused. "I can't just play these cuddly games indefinitely. I would think with all your research, you'd have turned up something about how men and women are different that way."

"I know that, Erik. I know what you want."

"Oh, do you? Then you know I'm no better than your husband," I resigned myself to the inevitable.

"No you're not! Oh, Erik," she sighed, shaking her head. I slid to the edge of the bed.

"You're not running away again, are you? Erik? Don't!" Christine pulled me back and scrambled around so nimbly that she was sitting on me, holding me pinned before I realized what was happening.

"Christine…"

"I know you're an architect, and a draftsman, and you're good at things like maths…and I know you're not much about dresses…but do you think you could help me with these buttons?"

Big developments were occurring under Christine's skirts.

"Actually, I'm not sure I can, Darling…" I confessed miserably.

"Why?"

"Because my hands don't seem to be functioning too well just now."

"Poor Erik." She leaned forward and kissed me. Her chest feels very good against my chest. Her everything feels very good against my everything.

"Here, you just put your hands here…and here…like so. Mmmm. Do you like that, Erik? Do they feel as good to your hands as your hands feel to me?"

"Yes…quite good, but I'm beginning to feel a bit out of control, Christine," I worried.

"It's alright; we'll take it one step at a time. There's no rush, my love. I'll just take care of these buttons myself; you get acquainted with those…womanly things."


	7. Chapter 7

"Good Morning, Erik! I'd nearly given up on you. You wouldn't be able to account for our dear Comtesse, would you?"

I'm not sure what color I turned, but my face felt about to burst into flame.

"I believe she's still asleep." I wasn't able to look at him. I felt like a child being asked if he'd stolen a chocolate.

"Ah. And how did you sleep?"

"Why?" I growled.

"Why? Erik, I've asked you how you slept at every single breakfast since you've arrived. Now, today, you ask why? It's the polite thing to do; have you forgotten?"

"No…no."

"Are you alright, Erik?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Again why," he chuckled. "Oh, because you're pushing your food around your plate, you're fidgeting, and you're late for work."

"I'm late for work? I'm late for work!" I gulped the rest of my coffee down. Shrugging my jacket on as I dashed from the room, I nearly knocked Christine off her feet. She looked like a disheveled goddess. Her hair was carelessly tied up and her tiny bare toes peeked from beneath her dressing gown. Oblivious to Reza, she wrapped her arms around my neck and wrung an upstairs sort of a kiss from me. It was alright; the moment I saw her, I was oblivious to Reza as well.

"I wish you didn't have to go today," she whispered. She was so much more beautiful than I'd ever seen her, because she was actually mine. I wanted desperately to go back upstairs. I told her so and she offered me her tinkling bells laugh.

"Don't be late," she suggested.

"Oh, don't worry," I laughed. I turned to say goodbye to Reza, but he'd made a discreet escape.

I wasted no time in making short work of it in the afternoon and getting my bony carcass home. Imagine my horror when a herd of water buffaloes stampeded from the parlor just as I was trying to get in the door. I was convinced there were at least twenty; I later learned that there were only ten. I suspect the fat ones threw my estimate awry; there were a few fat ones. I flattened myself against the wall and let the herd roll by. Trapped as I was, I made a bit of a study and determined that Christine is every bit the extraordinary creature that I have always believed her to be. She truly is the most exquisite woman in the world. I decided to share this epiphany with my Persian friend directly.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Thank God you're not serving tea to that herd of bison, Darius."

"Good heavens, Erik, is that a smile? Take off that mask, you charlatan! What have you done with Erik?"

"Of course it's a smile. Today is a marvelous day. The buffaloes are leaving, tomorrow is Sunday, and just this afternoon I've confirmed beyond any doubt that Christine is indeed the most beautiful woman in the world. Thank you, Darius." I dunked a sweet biscuit in my tea.

"Not that I'm disputing your claim, but how did you happen to arrive at your conclusion?"

"Just a bit of scientific observation as I was pinned to the wall, awaiting the stampede's end. Several of them were bigger than the three of us men put together; there was one that had teeth like an Alsatian dog; and another that had a mustache rivaling yours, daroga. For a moment I thought it was you being carried along with the herd, but then I noticed the hat: it looked like a big blue wedding cake, so that let you out. Where the devil is my little darling, anyway?"

"Just before you came, Madame Comtesse said she and the ladies were off to distribute leaflets, and not to wait dinner," Darius murmured.

I stopped crunching my biscuit, the better to hear what I was about to ask Darius to repeat.

"What?"

"Just before you came, Mad—"

"Yes, yes, god's blood, I heard you the first time. Did you know about this?" I glared at Reza.

"Yes; I heard her when she breezed in," he replied.

"Well?" I demanded.

"I'm sorry…well what?"

"Well, did you forbid her going?"

"Forbid her going? Me?" the daroga chuckled. "Oh, no, my friend, not me. You forbid her, if you like."

"And I would have done, had I been here. What sort of friend are you if I can't count on you forbidding her this ridiculous behavior when I'm otherwise engaged?"

"Erik, Christine is not mine to forbid anything."

"But you're another man in the house, and you can speak for me—she knows she's under your protection when I'm gone. She'll listen to you as she would me. I can't believe you didn't say anything!" I was spluttering like a wet chicken.

"So Christine will listen to you, then?"

"Of course. I mean…" I colored slightly and lowered my voice. "I realize I'm not her lawful husband, but…"

"That wasn't what I was referring to. I mean, if you were to forbid Christine going out with her ladies and handing out leaflets, do you mean to say that she would abide by your wishes?"

"Of course she would. Why wouldn't she?" The conversation was baffling me. I was beginning to think my friend was going senile.

"Erik, have you been paying any attention since Christine's been here? Do you think all this women's suffrage talk is just…talk? I believe she's quite serious about it, and I don't see how you can possibly imagine that she's going to stand for you ordering her about, telling her what she can and cannot do."

I caught his arm. "Come along, Reza." I didn't want to have this conversation in front of Darius, or anyone else. We slipped into the parlor, which still reeked of dozens of floral notes.

"Reza…I didn't want to take this up in front of Darius, and of course I'm relying on your discretion."

"Certainly, Erik, what is it?"

"You see, Christine and I are…last night, we began a rapprochement over this pure and noble love…thing." My friend lit up like the Opera House chandelier.

"You began a rapprochement? What does that mean, exactly?"

"You know," I emphasized, meaningfully wriggling my eyebrow.

"Oh. OH! Erik, congratulations, my boy! Heavens, I feel I should buy you a drink, offer you a cigar!" he shook my hand obnoxiously.

"You're rattling my bones. My arm's about to fall off."

"Sorry, my boy. Oh, this is delightful!" He refused to stop grinning like a simpleton.

"Well, I don't know that all this celebration is in order yet…if you'll notice, I said we had begun. Technically, I am, ah, only slightly less virtuous than I was this time yesterday," I qualified.

"So I was right, then."

"About what?"

"That if you had her, you wouldn't know what to do with her," he reminded me.

"I don't suppose it would occur to you that a man might wish to approach his beloved respectfully, savoring the experience?"

"No, it would not. You're terrified—"

"I am NOT!"

"--and the lady is leading you by the hand."

The invisible lasso in my hands was tingling, longing for his hateful neck.

"Don't fall asleep around me, old man, or you'll wake up swinging."

I told Darius that I would take a cold supper later with Christine. I didn't want to keep company with that old fiend; it forecast nothing but indigestion. I had rather enjoyed the bath last night, and since I had waiting to do, I fetched a book and went for another soak. I was, ah, up rather late last night…so I dozed in the fragrant foam. I dreamed Christine was stroking my cheek, and kissing me sweetly, and whispering my name…

"Erik…"

Right, my eyes were open. I was in the tub, which I believed was where I was when I dropped off. But the room was lit with candles and it seemed that Christine was in the tub with me.

"I'm still asleep."

"Nooo," she promised.

"Then you'd better get out, my Dear…because…" Christine leaned forward against my chest. She'd managed to squirm her tiny self between my legs. There was getting to be less room available there with every passing second.

"Erik, your hands…remember?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry, Angel." Silly me, I hadn't quite realized we were at it again. Christine doesn't even let a man come to his senses. She kissed me urgently.

"I've been thinking about this all day," she confessed breathlessly.

"So've I, my Angel. I missed you when I returned home." I briefly considered lecturing her about the leaflet-passing-out thing. Very briefly.

"Erik…" she guided my bony hand somewhere it had never been, which would have been sufficiently unnerving, but then she took a corresponding step with her own hand.

"Oh my dear, Christine, are you quite sure about this?"

"Quite sure. You don't mind, do you?"

"No…no, but I'm feeling out of control again."

"You'll feel still more out of control before I'm through with you. Let's get out; the water's cooling, and besides…I want to show you something."

Well, it was impossible to refuse that suggestion. We made our way to bed, where she encouraged me to continue my explorations. What a symphony of sensation she is, what a miracle. I don't know what HE did wrong, but if Christine wanted to train me to her own satisfaction, I wasn't about to stand on pride; I had no problem whatsoever with it. I was still unclear how all this fumbling fit in with pure and noble, but I decided to let the question be for the present. She wasn't feeling talkative anyway, and I was less capable of speech the longer we carried on.

Presently, I found myself very much in the right place at what seemed a most opportune time, when the next thing I knew, Christine was squirming away and promising to be right back. No, no, no.

"Wait a moment, Erik. Here, I just need to…" Wait for what?

"WHOA. What is that, and what precisely do you think you're doing, Madame?"

"It's called an English riding coat, and it stops me becoming pregnant."

"You're damned right it does." I was no longer having any fun at all.

"We just have to, ah—"

"And how do you propose to do that, exactly?"

"Well, it has to get…as it was before, Erik."

"Right, well, you've scared it off, brandishing that nasty thing."

"Oh, how do you know it's nasty? You've not tried it," She fussed.

"It looks nasty from here. I don't have to try getting thrown from a speeding train to know I'm not much for it, and I'm not much for that thing, either. Send it back to England," I groused.

"Erik!"

"Christine, what is the point of this exercise? Why should I bother?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Touch my hand, will you? Here, just take your finger and touch my palm. There, feel that?"

"Mm hm."

"Right. Now, stick your finger in that thing and touch my palm. Feel that? Feel anything? Am I making my point?"

Christine made a thoughtful, dejected face.

"I still think it would be pleasant, Erik."

"Compared to what?" I demanded.

"Compared to something you've got no knowledge of, that's what!"

I threw myself down on the bed and drew the sheet up over my head. "I cannot believe we're arguing now, Angel. That is the last thing I want to do."

"Well, I don't want to argue, either, but I also don't want to have any babies just yet."

"Will you please, please come over here? Just let me touch you, Christine. It's enough, truly, to hold you and touch you," I traced her brow, her nose, across her cheekbone, her jaw, ran my thumb across her lips. She kissed me, easing me down. Her eyes were those of a lover once again.

"It isn't enough for me," she declared.

>

"Erik…" It was morning; my little Angel was kissing me awake. She'd brought me a tray of coffee and toast, imagine that. I had a sip of coffee and burst into a flood of tears.

"Oh my love," she sympathized, cradling my hellish death's head against her incomparable breasts. "What is it?"

"I just can't believe this, Christine. I keep expecting to wake up. When you went away with him, I thought I would die, and I never imagined—"

"But there's no need to imagine, is there? It's real…and I'm so happy, Erik."

She got me over my crying jag by luring me into another bout of our new favorite game.

Much later, I had the presence of mind to ask her what I'd been wondering ever since she'd permitted me to take liberties…or she'd taken liberties, I'm not sure which.

"Christine, you remember when you first came here. You said that you were leaving Raoul because you didn't like being married."

"I remember." It was extremely difficult for me to carry on a conversation with her, because she seemed bent on distracting me with a seemingly endless repertoire of kisses and caresses.

"I didn't think we'd be getting up to any of this, frankly. You said you didn't like it, you said it would be different if you and I were together. You said my love was pure."

"I remember."

"It's rather contradictory, isn't it?"

"Not to me," she replied tightly. "I felt like…one of those harem girls you've told me about. Raoul was busy with his pursuits all day and told me about it all over dinner. I was expected to be fascinated, regardless of what it was about, and then it was time for me to be his little playmate. Did he ever ask me what I'd done with my day? What I had thought about? Well, you can't ignore me day after day and then expect me to greet you passionately. It was ugly, and it hurt, as I told you—it hurt in many ways. It is different with you, Erik. You've always cared about what I think and what I do. When we touch, I know it's me you're touching. It's beautiful and noble because you recognize that I'm a person. To me, my body and mind are all connected. With you, I feel that I'm with my partner, not my master."

"So I don't hurt you, then?"

"No, you don't hurt me."

"I'm gratified to hear this. I love you, Comtesse."

"I love you, Angel of Music."

"Would you like to sing today?"

"I would love to sing today! Erik, life is good."


	8. Chapter 8

"Good morning, my friend, I missed you and the Comtesse yesterday."

"Just coffee, Darius. Don't stop it coming until I run from the room screaming."

"I gather the rapprochement is proceeding apace. Well? Have you nothing to say?"

"Is meddlesome interrogation a national pastime in Persia, or were you banished from your native land because of this personal character flaw?"

"Good heavens. Things must not be proceeding apace. Surely you'd be in a more sociable frame of mind if they were," cracked the Persian wag.

"I used up all my sociability yesterday, thank you. I'm…convalescing. Perhaps by Wednesday."

"I see. More red meat and greens, I think, and not so much coffee. Plenty of clear, fresh water, and should you need, ah, an immediate burst of energy, fruit juice."

"Reza, I must apologize in advance. I have wracked my brain for a more cordial way of putting this, and in my current state, I am afraid that the best I can do is: Shut Up."

"Oh dear, Erik; you are suffering if that is the best you can do, you heartless fiend. And after I was so concerned for you yesterday."

"Concerned for me? Why?"

"Because I thought you might well be coming through the floor." He had the nerve to laugh when I turned colors. "But, I digress. Good job, Erik, giving her the devil for going out pamphleteering with the herd."

"Right." I sipped my coffee and tried not to squirm.

"You did give her a piece of your, ah, mind, did you not?"

"Not yet…it…didn't come up yesterday."

"No, I rather suspected it didn't."

"I intend to take it up with her today," I insisted.

"Of course," the Persian nag smirked.

"Good morning," Christine glided into our midst. She declined her customary seat across the table, choosing instead to remain by my side, where she could hold my hand and stroke my thigh surreptitiously. Maddening little vixen. Immediately the daroga reverted to his false charming face.

"Good morning, Christine, you're a ray of sunshine on this dreary morning," he beamed. Good grief.

"Thank you, Reza, you always say the kindest things." Good grief. Christine turned to me, her sweet face all concern.

"I hope you won't be too late tonight, Darling."

"Barring something unforeseen, I should be home as I normally am. What are you planning for today, Angel?"

"Well, first I have to check in with my friends to see if our leaflets have turned up any response. We may have to let a hall for our meeting, if there's too much response to fit all the ladies in the house," she worried.

"Response to what? What was this leaflet thing about, precisely?" I grumbled. Christine dashed off to locate one so I could see for myself.

"Erik, are you sure you want to ruin your day so early?" Reza quipped.

"Here!" Christine waited with breathless pride as I scanned the leaflet.

"POLITICAL EQUALITY for WOMEN!" "CONTROL of our LIVES and our BODIES!" "DECIDE for YOURSELF!" "SUFFRAGE!" It gushed on in like fashion; too many upper case letters and exclamations for my liking. I might have been able to dismiss it as a girlish prank, except for Christine's name and address on the leaflet.

"Christine, what could you have been thinking, putting your name and address on this…this…nonsense?" I demanded.

"Nonsense? Erik, it's not—"

"And when I refer to it as nonsense, Madame, I assure you that I'm being charitable," I snapped. "Don't you realize that if someone were to take this seriously, you could find yourself in harm's way, advertising your whereabouts like this?"

"There are many people who take this seriously, Erik," she replied, returning to her seat.

"I don't mean your silly little ladies, Darling; I mean, what if some men were to take exception? Men who don't know you and imagine that you're really out to overthrow the natural order of things?" I explained. I covered her little hand with my own. I was fast becoming late for work, but giving Christine the proper perspective on this new hobby of hers was nearly as important.

She mumbled something and withdrew her hand from mine, folding it neatly in her lap with its mate.

"I'm sorry, my dear, what did you say?"

"I said, it's not the natural order of things simply because you say so." She sounded like a petulant child.

"Christine, that's quite enough. Now, I've indulged you in this because it's been relatively harmless thus far, but taking it public like this…it smacks of rabble rousing. It's…unlovely, Darling…and unwise. Now, today, I'd like you to meet your lady friends and do everything you can to gather up any of these stray leaflets that you find. Please. I believe I may speak for Reza in that you're free to continue your little…study group here at home, but no more leaflets and certainly no more…public agitating. You're out of your league, child." I patted her cheek. "Alright?" I smiled, kissed her adorably furrowed brow, and started off.

"No."

"I beg your pardon, Darling?"

"I said, No." she repeated, more firmly.

"If you'll excuse me…" the daroga was set to run for the hills.

"No, Reza, sit down. There's no argument here, you needn't make yourself scarce. Besides, I think it may be educational for Christine to understand that it isn't just Erik being bloody-minded, but that any man worth his salt would find such behavior objectionable in a young lady of her quality."

Christine was blushing scarlet. Good, at long last she was realizing the error of her ways.

"There's no reason to be so dejected, Angel. So long as we understand each other, there's no need. And you do understand, don't you?"

"I understand, but I'm not going to stop. It isn't little, it isn't silly, and it isn't meant to be harmless. We mean every word on those leaflets," Christine snapped.

"That's enough, Christine. Not another word," I ordered.

"You can't tell me what to do."

"Please, Erik, Christine—"

"Leave it, Reza! Christine, I'm going to work now. Perhaps a bit of time alone will clear your head."

"My head is clear! I'm not your property, Erik!" she fairly shrieked after me.

I was sufficiently busy for the morning that I had no time to think of Christine until I paused for lunch. There must be one or two of those harridans that were particularly strident and man-hating. I thought of putting a word in with Darius; when he was serving them their tea and biscuits, if he could make a note of such things it might be instructive. If I forbade Christine associating with those particular Amazons, I felt it would go a long way toward cooling her fevered brain.

I was just dipping into my cheese and bread when Jules rumbled in.

"There's a gentleman here," he growled.

That annoying git Chagny was attempting to muscle his way past Jules' ponderous bulk. I could have kissed Jules at that moment; he so obviously despised the boy.

"It's alright, Jules. Thank you." I nodded. Jules shot one final nasty look at the Comte for good measure.

"What is this? What sort of business are you about?" the handsome brat demanded, brandishing some scrap of paper at me. "'Christine, Comtesse de Chagny!'" he read. Surprise, that. I hadn't realized he'd completed his schooling. Then I realized he'd found a copy of the leaflet.

"Ah, yes, that will be Madame la Comtesse's little diversion." I explained. "She and her lady friends have created themselves a 'Women's Studies group'."

"Women's studies?" Of course he'd never heard of it.

"Yes, you know. The pore over legal books to see whether there's a loophole whereby they can initiate divorce if their husband gets drunk on a Tuesday. They snoop through medical journals to find out if there's a way to avoid pregnancy or render their husbands impotent. They try to extrapolate and concoct pseudo-philosophical arguments in favor of giving women the vote."

"I won't have it! That's my name on this thing!"

"Yes. I know." I replied blandly.

"What are you doing about it?" he demanded.

"Everything I can. I only learned about the leaflets after it was too late yesterday. When they were simply gathering and talking their mindless theories over tea, I indulged it, I admit. She's so adorable, it impossible for a man not to spoil her, don't you agree?" I crinkled my 'nose' confidentially at him. It was delicious to rub a bit of salt in his wounds.

"Naturally," I continued, "when I learned that they were beginning to take themselves seriously, I took it under immediate advisement. Christine and I had a chat this morning. I explained my position in the clearest possible terms; she understands it is no frivolous matter when she makes public her name and address. I've charged her with collecting any leaflets she is able to find today, and instructed her that there are to be no repeat performances."

"Right." The Comte nodded, seemingly mollified. "Is there anything I can do?"

Yes. Go to hell.

"I have it in hand."

"I caution you, Sir, that I will not have my name tainted," he puffed like the little peacock he was.

"It has been seen to," I repeated, tiring of his company.

"She never carried on so with me," he accused.

"Which is precisely why she left, you dolt; you wouldn't let her speak," I snapped.

"And what good is letting her have her say if it's to come out with scandalous material like this?"

"I told you, it is well in hand. She's perfectly compliant and agreeable outside of this little craze, and now that it's been seen to, there is no further cause for concern. Good day." I returned my attention to my lunch. I could sense that the genius had not taken the hint and left me.

"Is she happy?" he asked finally. Wounded lover to the end.

"Deliriously so, if I say so myself and shouldn't," I assured him.

He nodded. "Will you tell—"

"No, sir, I will tell her nothing."

"I only want her to know that I can rest easy if she's genuinely happy."

"And I shall do all I can to see that you continue to rest easy," I grinned as nastily as I could. Quite nastily, I'll wager, considering what I have to work with.


	9. Chapter 9

Realizing that we had not parted on the absolute best of terms, I decided to bring a trifle home for Christine to reassure her that I was not still angry about her disrespectful scene of the morning. I found a lovely rose gold bracelet which I thought would do the trick. I was quite pleased to see that there was no herd of buffalo in the parlor for a change. Excellent, a nice quiet evening; remove Reza and it will be a perfect evening.

In the parlor, Christine and Reza were awaiting Darius' word for dinner. I kissed her extravagantly, hoping to forecast my plans for the evening. My darling was a bit less effusive than I would have liked, but I attributed this to Reza's presence. When Darius summoned us to dinner, I held Christine back to present her with her gift in private.

"Oh, Erik, it's lovely! But it isn't my birthday or anything."

"It's just an 'I love you' gift," I replied.

"And I love you. Here, help me," she smiled. I helped her with the clasp and we went in to dinner after rather less of a kiss than I would have preferred.

"Look, Reza, what Erik gave me for no reason at all!" she chirped.

"Very lovely indeed, Christine, it suits you."

"How was your day, Darling?" I opened.

"Fine. I was a bit tired, I didn't really do very much today," she replied thinly.

"I hope you're not falling ill," I worried.

"Oh no. I'm sure it's nothing like that," she smiled. "How was your day?"

"Uneventful." I had decided that it would avail nothing to reveal the Comte's visit to Christine. I wasn't lying, anyway. A visit from him is most definitely uneventful, to say nothing of unfortunate.

After dinner, Christine took herself up to a fragrant bath, and the daroga and I retreated for cognac.

"Prudent decision, the bracelet," Reza opened.

"Hm."

"She was mad as a lovely little hornet after you departed this morning."

"Right, well, you see, a shiny trinket turneth away wrath," I replied. "My little Christine is returned to her charming self. The Comte called on me today."

"Really? What did he want?"

"To warn me that he would not tolerate his name being splattered all over those ridiculous leaflets. I assured him that things were well in hand. I daresay I'm managing it more effectively than he could."

"Good for you, Erik. I'm glad you were able to converse with him as civilized men."

"Whatever you say, Reza. I was just this side of curt; he really is intolerably dull." I drained my cognac. "Well, Daroga, I'm off to make an early night of it. Don't worry about the floor."

"Oh my. Good night."

I was quickly disappointed in my plans. Christine's upstairs behavior was equally restrained as her downstairs behavior had been. Not really restrained; rather, non-existent. It was as if I was keeping her from a book she desperately wanted to finish before bed. Not that I pretend any expertise, but I was singing from the same libretto, so to speak, as I had last night with great success, and I was provoking no reaction whatsoever. No sighs, no squirms, no insistent nudges. Finally, utterly at a loss, I resolved to dig for an explanation as quickly as possible, thereby salvaging the evening.

"Darling, are you…unwell?"

"No, I told you I'm fine, Erik."

"I meant, ah…"

"Oh. No."

"Well, I'm wondering what's troubling you, because you seem quite disinterested in the proceedings," I explained. What followed next was easily one of the most extraordinary moments I've experienced.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dear," Christine replied, ever so sincerely. Then, quick as you please, she drew her bed gown off, tossed it aside, and settled flat on her back like a pretty little corpse on a slab.

"There," she nodded, and laid stock still. To say I was confused would be an understatement. Christine was apparently awaiting my pleasure obediently. I renewed my efforts, but she remained unmoved, and unmoving.

"Christine, what is this? Do you intend to participate at all? To move, to vocalize, anything?" I ultimately demanded.

"No; why?"

"Why? Why not? What happened to last night?"

"Last night I was under the impression you wanted a partner to share your life with," she replied.

"I do!"

"Oh. Well, that's not what you said this morning, Darling. This morning you indicated that I was to obey you unquestioningly and do precisely as I was told. If that's what you want, then, that's what you'll get. Which is it, Erik? It's up to you."

"I want it to be just as it has been," I felt this should have gone without saying, frankly.

"I do, too, Erik," Christine cooed, allowing me to draw her delectable form closer. Much better, she seemed to be herself again. "Erik, I just wanted to mention…"

"Yes?" I suspect I sounded a bit irritated.

"I intend to carry on with my meeting and organizing activities, and I didn't collect any leaflets today. I didn't want you to think that I obeyed your orders from this morning, because that would be dishonest."

"Christine, must we discuss this NOW?"

"Yes, I'd like to make certain that we understand each other, as you said this morning. Do you understand, Erik?"

"I understand that it's unchristian of you to present your suffragette's platform while in the nude. You have me at a cruel disadvantage, Christine. Cover yourself, for god's sake!" I stormed.

Christine drew the sheet up around herself. It was heartbreaking to see my toy taken away, but if she was going to harangue me with this women's rights stuff, she could at least do so covered and allow me to think.

"I would like very much if we could limit these discussions to breakfast and dinner, and definitely out of bed hours. It has a decidedly unromantic effect, Christine, do you follow?"

"Yes. I follow. It has a decidedly unromantic effect on me when you tell me that what's important to me is silly, and little, and against the natural order."

I drew a martyred sigh. "So you're saying that if I don't permit you to carry on with this rabble rousing, man-hating nonsense, you'll…" I was about to say 'deny me my rights'. Of course, the problem was, I didn't have any rights. Ha ha.

"I'll what?" she asked.

"Ah, you'll…never mind. What is it you're trying to convey, Christine? How is it you want me to behave?" I had to ask, because I frankly had no idea anymore, since she'd turned into a suffragette.

"I'm trying to convey that I'm not a child, and you're not my master. Don't you remember what I told you about Raoul, about how he never listened to me?" Inexplicably, Christine elected at this moment to melt against me and kiss me warmly. "Erik, I want you to be my lover."

"I want to be your lover, my Angel." I rather felt this should go without saying as well, especially with all the evidence she had close at hand attesting to the truth of it. Once again, I happened to be just where I wanted to be, and it seemed that Christine might forget about that English Curse…

"Erik, you understand, then? I'm not your property," her little hands were surprisingly effective at impeding my progress.

"Why don't you just claim my trousers in the morning, then, Woman—or does that term no longer apply?" I admit, I was feeling quite frustrated with the current state of affairs.

"What? Get off, get off me, you brute!" Christine exploded into a riot of flailing arms and legs. Dammit. Ouch and dammit. I was rendered breathless and speechless by a particularly vicious, if unintentional, attack. I could not howl, or vomit, both of which I desperately longed to do. All I could do was crumple into a tangle of noiselessly screeching nerve endings. My ruthless assailant fussed and fretted; I believe she thought I might die. So did I.

"Erik, ohh, you poor dear, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it—please say you know I didn't mean it, please?" She petted me and sympathized, and even rushed all the way downstairs to fetch me a glass of wine. I returned to my former self, slowly. I was not entirely certain that I had not been damaged beyond repair, but Christine was extremely solicitous and insisted upon making a detailed examination of her own. I could hardly refuse…and when she suggested that perhaps she might kiss and make it all better…

Ultimately we were both well satisfied that I was none the worse for my ordeal.

"Erik, I hate to bring this up again, but…you do understand, don't you?" Her fingers did a spidery dance across my chest.

"Yes. Yes, I understand, I'm to keep my mouth shut." I growled, unconvincingly.

"That's not precisely how I'd prefer you put it, but it's a start," she agreed.


	10. Chapter 10

"Before you say anything disagreeably jovial, Reza, I must warn you that I am quite possibly in the worst mood of my life this morning—Bless you, Darius, you are a gift of the gods. No food, thank you, just—yes, you know."

After my hard-won interlude of bliss with Christine, I had lain awake most of the night wondering just what I'd promised in the dark. What does that mean, 'I'm not your property'? I know she's not, so what does it mean I have to stop doing that made her think I thought she was? What will I have to stand still for now with this Womens' Studies group? I thought I was standing still for more than enough, but apparently she didn't think I was showing appropriate enthusiasm, support, admiration, partnership. Or something. Is she going to start embarrassing me in front of Reza? Is she going to change? How?

"I'm so sorry, Erik. I hope this doesn't portend trouble in Paradise."

"'I'm not your property, Erik,'" I mocked. "'It's not silly, or little.' 'Lots of people take this very seriously.' Common decency forbids my describing the outrageous blackmail I was subjected to until I acceded to her demands."

"Oh dear. I take it the meetings will continue, then."

"Absolutely," I growled.

"Well, Erik, I shouldn't worry too much if I were you," the daroga replied, sipping his coffee.

"Oh, no? How much worse could this get?"

"No, I don't mean all this equality nonsense. I agree with you, it's perfectly dreadful. I mean that…assuming that you two are still, ah, speaking…the thing will be self-limiting. This women's rights thing will go out the window once she has something genuinely womanly to occupy her time. Shouldn't be too long now, my friend."

"What the devil are you on about?"

Reza chuckled ominously. "Why, the pitter-patter of little feet, of course. I think we'll need a larger house; what do you think?"

Now it was my turn to chuckle. "Oh, you think so, do you? Hah. This modern world is evil, my man. The ways it has to turn our women's hearts and minds…and bodies…against us are endless. Damn the wretch that ever birthed this women's rights plague! If I could get my rope around the bastard's neck…anyway, there'll be no babies."

My friend's eyebrows shot skyward. "You're quite sure...it sounds as though there will be babies, if you'll forgive me."

"If she's got anything to say about it, there'll be no babies." I colored brightly. "She's got these evil English things," I explained grudgingly.

"Oh, yes. You poor man. Erik, did you know that it's only in France they're called 'English'? Elsewhere, they're 'French'." For some reason, he was amused by this idea.

"FRENCH? I beg your pardon, Sir! I am a proud citizen of France, and I regard it as the supreme insult for you to suggest that any countryman of mine could ever have devised so reprehensible—"

"Erik, have some coffee, it will calm you down," he cracked.

"It's typical of the English; what do they know about love?" I spluttered.

Oddly enough, life went back to normal with nary a ripple after the Night of the Suffragette's Fury. Christine was as sweet and feminine as ever, to my endless relief. I endeavored to listen to her news with obvious interest; not that I wasn't interested, but it was critical that I APPEARED interested.

After about ten days of peace and bedded bliss, Christine announced that the date for her meeting had been set for 7pm Friday instant, and they'd been forced to let an upstairs room at the library, owing to their expected turnout. Reza and I passed quick glances and nodded appreciatively.

"Good job, Darling. How many ladies are you expecting, then?"

"About three hundred!" she gushed.

"Ahhhhh," the daroga and I chorused in admiration. God help us, three hundred rabid women in one place. One shuddered to imagine it.

"I would like you to come, too, Reza," Christine smiled hopefully.

"Oh, that's very kind, my dear. Thank you, but likely I'll stay here and keep Erik company."

"But Erik will be with me," Christine explained. Yet another self-evident to no one but her idea.

"Oh no I—" I sighed. "Christine…three hundred people. You know I'm not really much for…I can't even name three people I'd like to be shut up in a room with…please." It wasn't the rabid women; it was me in a room with three hundred anything. It was difficult enough making my way back and forth from work each day on the bustling streets, but at least in the street I could bolt and run. In a room…on the second floor…with no trapdoors…

"But Erik, I need your support."

"Oh, Christine…" I groaned. I shot a glare at Reza. "You're coming too."

My Persian friend looked as if he'd swallowed a live mouse. No matter, I knew Christine would work on him. Meanwhile, I would work on her--to get out of it.

That afternoon, I ducked out of work early and rushed home. The daroga was awaiting me, dear man that he is, with a cognac at the ready.

"Right, we've got a bit over a week to get out of this, and it must be a flawless excuse. I think that my scent changes when I'm lying."

"Really? That's the most extraordinary thing I've ever heard," he replied.

"What explanation have you got for it? She always knows. Uncanny creature."

"You could fall ill," he suggested lamely.

I glared at him. "Pathetic. Unless I burst into flame from fever, she'll drag me along. She's on the lookout for that."

"Perhaps you could injure yourself at work."

It was a rather extreme suggestion, but I considered that Jules would have no problem breaking any of my spindly bones. I nodded. "I'll keep that in reserve if we don't think of anything better. What else?"

"Why can't we whine incessantly about not wanting to be the only two men there? Or perhaps I can tell her that you're coming to me in a cold sweat about being in a room with so many people. I could tell her that your heart won't stand it."

I nodded again. "Alright. Start working on her about my panic. I'll drop some little hints as well. God help me, Reza. What does she expect me to do there anyway?" I demanded hotly.

"Support, remember."

"Bugger support. Can you see it? 'And this, ladies, is my,' ah…what the devil would you call me, anyway, daroga?"

"An ugly git?"

"Thank you, I've just found my out. I shall be in prison awaiting trial for your murder. I mean what the devil would you call me in relation to Christine?"

"In polite company? Oh, I suppose common-law husband or some such."

"Right. '…this is my common law husband, or some such. Yes, think of it ladies, I left the beautiful, wealthy, dim Comte de Chagny for this apparition because SO DEVOTED am I to our cause, that I'd rather bed this fiend than tolerate another minute of the Comte's demands for unquestioning obedience.' Now there's the way to clear a hall."

"Well, hold on. That's a good thing--that would kill off the movement cold," Reza realized.

"Mm. Quite so. Pity there's not more like me at home."

We did everything we could, laid it on thick all week, to no avail. Finally, Christine packed me off to work that fateful Friday morning cautioning me that she'd never believe it if I sent word that I was at death's door, having been crushed by a boulder the size of the Louvre itself. There was nothing for it, we were doomed. We agreed to bring two hip-flasks and lots of cigarettes and be as obnoxiously masculine as possible.

We slithered around to the rear of the meeting hall by the door, chiefly because we wanted to be able to set the door slightly ajar and smoke like chimneys. It afforded us the added benefit of being able to preview the buffaloes as they lumbered in. Fully eighty-five percent were ugly enough to be blood relations of mine; another ten percent had mustaches to rival the Persian's.

"The thing is, Reza, this is such a ghastly crowd that the remaining five percent are immediately rendered ravishing by contrast. It was a good job we came after all."

"I beg your pardon? Are you having me on, or are you farther along in that flask than you ought to be?"

"No, I was just realizing how excellent it is to come here and realize what a lucky ghost I am. Christine is the loveliest by far, don't you think?"

"Absolutely; though, Erik, I don't suppose either of us is entirely unbiased."

"Of course not; why should we be?"

"Well, I was merely pointing it out."

"Right, well, let's leave Christine out for a moment. In this entire place, and here we are, right by the door where we have an excellent vantage point, I only make out two—TWO!—that I'd actually give, ah, a piece of my mind, if you will."

"Oh, and who might those poor unfortunates be?"

"Ha. Ha. See that purplish-bluish orb over there? The chubby redhead? She's rather charming in a bouncy sort of way. Fetching smile, and I'll wager a delightful…bustle under that bustle. And then…hang on—oh, yes, you can't really miss this one, she's every inch as tall as I. Do you see, the dark, raven-haired one—do you suppose she's Creole?—wonder if she's a widow in that bronze dress. Lovely how she broods, isn't it? I haven't seen her smile once."

"Heavens, no. The chubby redhead is smiling and pink; I can see that. But that other one, Erik, you just fancy the challenge. You're morbidly fascinated and wondering if you'd escape alive."

I lit another cigarette and indulged a black fantasy about finding myself defenseless in that Creole Amazon's clutches. I was jarred from my daydream by the approach of a rotund chap with a stubby cigar and a fraternal smile.

"May I join you gentlemen? I feel rather—"

"Frightened?" Reza offered. They laughed and shook hands. I much preferred to rekindle my fantasy, but I reckoned under the circumstances I could be civil to a brother. The daroga offered introductions all around, and I offered our new friend Gaston a drink.

"Whatever brings you gentlemen here?"

"Erik is connected with that lovely rabble rouser there, in the yellow dress, and I am here to provide moral support. How did you come to be here?"

"I am reporting for L'Epoque, actually."

"Oh, god, no. Why? This isn't news!" I cried.

"Well, everyone feels differently, my friend," Gaston shrugged. "But, did I hear Reza say that you are connected with--the Comtesse de Chagny, is she not?"

"She is," I replied. I would have preferred that had not come out.

"It has been rumored that she left her marriage, but it seems that no one has been able to confirm it."

"I can confirm it for you, sir, but that is all I will say, if you take my meaning."

"Of course, of course. How do you come to know the Comtesse, if I may—"

"You may not." I snapped. Had I not just told him I'd say no more? Reza sprang to pour oil on the waters.

"You must excuse my friend, Gaston. He is, actually, every bit as cantankerous as he appears; however, there beats a generous heart under that grumpy breast. He treasures his privacy, you see."

"Of course, I understand," Gaston replied; agreeable chap. He proffered a cigar as a peace offering. I am not ordinarily much for such things; I worry about my voice, but his cigar smelled delectable, and after all, I was trying to be as obnoxiously masculine as possible. A cigar was…obligatory. I decided I'd take myself out for a bit of cool air and some tobacco smoke. I told my companions what I was up to. They were well satisfied; it afforded them an opportunity to gossip about me.

I found a desolate area out the side door of the library which suited me perfectly. It was a dark, damp alley, for all intents and purposes, and reminded me of my late ruined home. In this sudden fit of nostalgia, I briefly contemplated taking Christine back down below the opera house, but I realized that Reza genuinely enjoyed our company. He seemed brighter since I'd come to stay with him; now, with Christine there, he was positively thriving. He was getting on in years, and I hesitated to abandon him. I suppose I'm getting soft and rankly sentimental in my old age.

I enjoyed the damp, the smoke, the solitude. I leaned against the building, enjoying muffled city sounds: carriages, drunken singing, laughter, fighting, dogs, and somewhere, someone was playing a violin. I closed my eyes and let the music come to me. The playing was good, and I floated away with it.

I did not hear the door, but I was snatched from my private symphony by the scuffing of feet and heels against the cobblestones, approaching me. In the dim glow from the lamps I recognized a woman's outline. Brilliant, I thought; either she is leaving early or the revolution is breaking up already. Still she approached me; I dropped my chin and averted my face as best I could, reckoning to let her pass without giving her a shock.

But she slowed, eventually stopped directly in front of me. As I waited for her to move on, I had the improbable sensation that she was actually waiting for me to raise my head. I took my final pull on the cigar, dropped and crushed it. Making no particular effort to avoid blowing smoke in the bothersome woman's face, I growled, "May I be of service, Madame?" I donned my best glare and raised my head to face her. It was my grim Creole.


	11. Chapter 11

"I know you", she accused. "I was there; I was almost crushed to death as people fled the fire. My back still aches every time I move."

Improbable as it seemed, I attempted to convince her that I was not THAT masked man.

"No, Madame, you have me wrong."

"They claimed you perished." She insisted. Her smoldering eyes were certain of what they saw. Fearful of her calling attention to me, I relented.

"I did not perish," I confessed. "But, if you were there, surely you realize that it was not my intent to destroy the place, even less to injure anyone. I wanted only to effect my escape, Madame. Did you see the number of guns trained on me, or were they hidden from your view? It seemed I was surrounded by every police officer in the city."

"I saw…" she raised her hand to her forehead. "I saw you tear ropes free of the scaffolding; already people were beginning to scream and run. I don't remember," she moaned. "The chandelier…and Cesar grabbed my hand…"

I saw what was coming not a second before her eyes fluttered and she crumpled; thus I was able to catch her before she hit the cobblestones. Beautiful; a disfigured monster in a darkened alley with an unconscious girl in his arms. Christine will love that every bit as much as the public at large. I placed my accuser gently on my coat, hoping at least to keep her clean and dry, and I ran to fetch Reza. He'd gotten me out of untidier fixes in the past, and I hoped he had yet another magic trick under his fez.

I shoved my eyeball to the crack in the door and threw my voice.

"Reza. REZA!" I hissed. He and Gaston were already fast friends, chuckling and sipping away as M. le Guillotine tickled the back of my neck.

"Reza, you idiot!" Gaston heard me and turned. I shoved my skeletal hand through and indicated he should stay; I only wanted Reza, thanks. Typical reporter, fat Gaston could not be dissuaded.

Staying Gaston's progress with a strong hand to his chest, I rasped "I have a…situation. I require my friend." He glanced at my hand, then remarked, "I know you, M. le Fantome. I would be pleased to assist, if I may."

Suspicion crawled up my spine; a huge centipede. My eyes narrowed to disbelieving slits.

"Why?"

"Because I am by nature a curious man, and I would welcome the opportunity to learn more of you and your story."

"I have no desire to read my own story in L'Epoque, Sir." I replied frostily.

"That will not happen, I assure you."

I didn't have time to debate it with him; I had to get back to my unwitting victim in the alley. I tugged the daroga's arm and bade him follow me, with Gaston rolling briskly along behind. When he spied the unconscious Amazon who'd featured so prominently in our earlier conversation, my oldest and dearest friend wasted no time in jumping to the most sordid conclusions.

"Erik! Good god, man, what's become of you!" he sputtered.

"WHAT?" I hissed. "She tracked me out here! She was at the Opera the night of the fire, and was injured. I tried to tell her that I'd meant no harm and was only trying to escape, and she was overcome by memories, as you see. I did not lay a hand on her, daroga!"

"Let's get her back inside," he worried.

"Wait," urged fat Gaston. "If we take her in, thereby attracting attention, and then she begins to retell her tale, it will not go well for Erik. Perhaps you should make for home and let us see to her," he suggested.

"Christine—the Comtesse—expects him to be here," Reza cautioned.

"But make something up, man!" Gaston cried.

I passed my hipflask under the woman's nose. It wasn't smelling salts, but it was the best I could manage. She raised her head slightly and groaned. I lifted her easily to her feet, keeping a good grip lest she remain wobbly. She kept her back very stiff and unusually straight, I noted. It is difficult when the suffering I've caused wears a face.

"Are you steady?"

"I believe so," she nodded, her hands still on my shoulders. Her eyes were black as my caverns.

"You were overcome while recalling…that evening," I reminded her.

"Yes." Still she stared at me, as if some mystery would be revealed, if only she could watch long enough. I assumed it was my eyes; they can be unsettling in the darkness.

"I beg to apologize for injuring you." I removed my arms from her waist cautiously. As I stepped away, it seemed some spell was broken and she was startled to discover my friends in attendance. They nodded; the lady frowned, no longer muddled.

"I must return," she breathed absently. She lifted her skirts slightly for fear of the water in the alley and made haste into the library.

"Extraordinary," remarked fat Gaston when she had gone. Reza and I nodded.

"Ah, thank you, Gaston, for your quick thinking on my behalf," I remarked stiffly.

"You're quite welcome, Erik." I offered him a drink and the three of us brothers in arms wandered back into fray.

Christine, Reza, Gaston and I were the last out of that bloody hall. We extracted a promise from Gaston that he would come for dinner and stay for a Men's Studies group we'd decided to form—just Reza, Gaston and me; a worthy excuse to drink and smoke, to my way of thinking. Our first agenda was to come up with a political platform, and I was already formulating some ideas about banishing fat women and suffragettes with mustaches to Ethiopia.

"What a charming man," Christine remarked on the ride home. "I like him. It would be quite good for you, Erik, to befriend someone so jovial."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes; it might lift you out of those miseries that you're so devoted to."

I gazed at my Persian friend, uncomprehending. "Daroga, can the Comtesse be implying that I am a gloomy bastard?"

"I do believe so," he responded gravely.

"Christine! I'm crestfallen," I complained. "Besides," I continued, leaning closer and closer until she was fairly pinned against the side of the carriage, "you can always cheer me." I pounced. She shrieked and struggled and fussed about Reza's proximity, but really she enjoyed it tremendously.

. . . .>

It was our inaugural Men's Studies group, and we'd been debating the relative merits of motherhood, various feminine physical characteristics, dancing girls, votes for women, corsets, good tobacco and brandy. It was late; we'd begun our cabal directly after dinner, so we were all pretty oiled up.

"AND ANOTHER THING!" I roared. My comrades wobbled their heads in my direction.

"ENGLISH RIDING COATS! BANNED FROM THE COUNTRY! A CAPITAL OFFENSE, IF YOU ASK ME!"

"Erik, don't be absurd. You'd never permit Christine's head to be cut off," Reza scoffed.

"You're RIGHT! But we're the RULING TRIUMVIRATE! We can make exceptions in special circumstances. I'd pardon her. I'd SPANK her and then PARDON her!"

Fat Gaston and I brought out one another's ribald natures, we'd discovered, and in our current state, we agreed that was nearly the funniest idea ever proposed. We embraced, weeping with hilarity. Reza, on the other hand, gets more persnickety with every sip—so by this time, he was as mirthless as I am sober.

"Tsk, tsk. Look at you two. Disgraceful—you're drunk as a couple of lords! And you, sir, I cannot believe you'd speak so about your darling Christine!" he sniffed primly.

"THAT'S what you know," I chuckled. "She goes in for a playful little whack now and again," I added confidentially.

"One must be careful of the timing, is all," advised Gaston.

"RIGHT!"

"Gentlemen…Erik…"

"WHAT!" I spun toward the sound. My body stopped well before my head did. I was grateful for the carpet to cumple onto. Christine was tapping a little slippered foot, arms crossed.

"Erik, it is nearly half past one. I believe it's time you boys went to bed, don't you?"

"WHAT? GET OUT, WOMAN! WE'RE PLOTTING!"

"Ssshhh, Erik, don't tell her," Gaston cautioned.

"Oh, yes…ssshhh," I agreed.

Christine smiled indulgently and took me in hand. "If you gentlemen will please excuse my prodigal phantom…good night."

Somehow my angel managed to get me upstairs and undressed, though I felt rather boneless. She poured me into bed.

"Christine, I love you. Kiss your ghost…" I pleaded.

"Oooff, Erik, you smell like an ashcan. Here, what about a little kiss over here on your cheek. There, that will have to do until you've been aired out."

"Christine, I love you…" my hand set off on an expedition…or not.

"And I love you, Dear, but there'll be no proving it this evening. Ah! Erik, don't touch, I mean it."

I don't remember anything after that, but I suspect that all I got was slapped.


	12. Chapter 12

Christine's women's group had metastasized into a herd of harridans so huge that they had to let a room whenever a general meeting was wanted. This turned out to be a monthly affair—ha ha. In order to be more 'effective', they elected to divide into sub-committees; these met at various members' homes, and the officers usually met in our parlor. I have no idea what went on; after the initial to-do at the library, I was excused. Needless to say, I did not suffer over this exclusion. Reza, Gaston and I gathered regularly to laugh at them.

One afternoon, the health issues subcommittee was meeting quickly in our parlor, after which they were all trundling off to the general meeting. I took myself up to my piano. After some time I heard my door shut. I was about to give Reza the devil for failing to knock, since I knew Christine could not be home so soon, but it was not Reza. It was the Creole from the Opera House fire.

"I beg your pardon, Madame, but however do you come to be here?" I demanded.

"Mademoiselle."

"Right, but how did you get in my house?"

"I was at the meeting." She had an eerily still way about her, and her eyes burned as if with a fever.

"Didn't they all leave? You didn't?"

"I snuck back round."

"And to what purpose, if I may ask?"

"I was looking for you." This was the most painful interrogation I'd been involved in for some time.

"Yes, so I've gathered; but again, to what purpose?"

"I was hoping you could tell me why you are so disturbing to me."

"Because I'm the Opera Ghost? Because of the mask?" They sounded like perfectly plausible reasons to me.

"You are the Comtesse's lover, aren't you?"

"The Comtesse and I have known each other for some time," I replied; a non-response, and all I felt this extremely strange woman was entitled to.

"I want to touch you, Ghost." Demure, retiring little Creole, this. She approached, unbuttoning her dress.

Have you ever seen a cat when all its hair stands straight out from its body? Normally this occurs right before it races up a tree. I had no tree; though I did attempt to climb the wall. Couldn't get a grip on it…the wall, that is.

"N-no, Mademoiselle, you don't. I warn you I am not like other men!" I was between a wall and an Amazon.

"I am counting on it," she replied. "Keep talking, Ghost. Your voice enchants me."

The last thing I wanted to be was enchanting, so I shut up. Her dress was open to the waist, and she slipped it from her shoulders. She shook her hair free, and reached down to gauge my reaction. All the while her black gaze burned into me.

"In some respects you are very much like other men, Ghost," she noted. She knelt at my feet and began freeing my discomfort from my trousers.

"No, Mademoiselle," I insisted, trying to sound menacing; difficult in the current embarrassing configuration.

"You should call me 'Josette', since we are about to be so well acquainted."

"Oh, no no. No, no, no. No, don't do that…" But she did. I was doomed once she got her hands and lips on me. No; I was doomed well before that. In retrospect, I realize that I could have shoved her aside and made my escape, but at the time I was laboring under the notion that I'd hurt her (again) if we struggled. The only thing I can say in my own defense is that I am likely the least prepared man on earth for such a situation. I was muddled, terrified, repelled, and thrilled; as people describe horrible train wrecks.

Josette did extraordinary things to me; in my odd semi-lucid thought, I wondered how the devil she'd gone about learning such tricks, but my sanity ran screaming from that question. It was a remarkably intense experience, though I would not describe it as entirely pleasant. Some part of my arousal went to the idea that I was being forced—at least in my own mind, I clung to the image of myself as an unwitting victim of Amazon outrage. The quality of sensation was sometimes sharp, even painful, but always compelling me toward a blinding climax. How I remained on my feet, I don't know. As I stood gasping for breath against the cool, comforting wall, Josette grabbed my arms to help herself to her feet.

"Ghost, look," she ordered. It took a moment for me to realize what the stuff was that she was smoothing onto her breasts. I don't know why I was so taken with it. I thought, I'd love to see Christine—icy bucket of reality, that. Feeling like a spaniel under the table with Sunday's roast, I gathered myself together.

The Creole succubus was buttoned up. At the door, she delivered her parting shot. "Next time, Ghost, I'll expect more from you than a bit of lotion."

I was right behind her through the door, scrambling into the bathroom, where I lost my supper, and then some. I was overwhelmed with panic; certain Christine would see something, smell something. I felt utterly filthy, so I dunked myself in a scalding double-lavender tub and scrubbed my carcass raw. I still felt polluted; uglier and less worthy than ever. I wanted to run crying to the daroga, but as I reached the top step, I realized what a disaster that would be. He loved Christine every bit as much as I, in his way. He wouldn't understand, never. He'd demand to know why I hadn't called out for help. I had no answer for that. Likely, he'd demand to know a lot of things I had no answer for.

Why? How could I? Why didn't I…? I couldn't even think about these questions. I felt as empty as I had when Christine turned away and left me under the burning Opera House. Only this time was different, because now I was guilty. Now I had something to hide from my precious angel.

I took myself to bed; just laid there, staring at the dark. I felt so hollow inside that there were not even any tears to cry out. When Christine tiptoed in, I feigned sleep. I didn't know how I'd ever face her again, but not now, not yet. After slipping into bed, she arranged the blankets around me and kissed my undeserving forehead with wifely tenderness.

. . . .>

"Just coffee, Darius," I rasped. I felt like death on chipped, ugly china.

"Erik, are you ill?" the daroga asked with genuine concern.

"I believe I am."

"Perhaps you'd best turn back around and make for bed."

I shrugged.

"But you must take care of yourself, my friend!" he exclaimed, nonplussed.

"Why? If I die, I die."

"Erik!"

We remained in thick silence together. Finally, my friend could bear it no longer.

"Erik," he whispered. "What could be troubling you so?"

"Nothing, Daroga. I'm overdue for a proper black mood, wouldn't you say? Well, I've got one. Excuse me." I took myself off to work wordlessly.

If there was ever a balance of good fortune in my account, I was grievously overdrawn this day. It was not yet mid-morning before Jules advised that the Curse of the Comte had returned. The boy was already pink as a boiled pig when he entered.

I glowered at him. "I must caution you, Pup, that I am in no mood…"

"Pup! I beg your pardon, Sir! You assured me that you had this Women's Rights thing in hand, and yet I'm informed that they meet regularly! They're more organized than ever, and my wife is the driving force! I warned you!"

"YOU warned ME? I warned you more than a year ago to never attempt to see her again!"

"What's that got to do with anything now?"

"Everything, I'd say. I told you last time you bothered me that she is not your wife; she is my MISTRESS, and if it pleases me to allow her to drag your precious name through the gutter, then so I shall. Go away, damn you."

"You listen to me—" The impetuous git got too close to me, and I grabbed him by the throat.

"No. You listen. I have always wanted to kill you, Raoul, do you understand? The only thing keeping me from snapping your neck right now is that she'd know it was me. When I release you, you must leave here and never trouble me again, or as I live, I will stalk you and kill you so that no one will ever find a bit of you. It will be as if you and your precious name never existed. Do not doubt me; I kill more beautifully than I sing."

I tossed him away. My anger rendered me stronger than I'd guessed, and he knocked his head against the wall. Unconscious and bloody, but still breathing, sadly.

"JULES! Will you please help me remove this dog shit in here?"


	13. Chapter 13

Jules carted the dazed fop to his carriage, reminding him that a worksite was far too dangerous a place for a Comte. He told the driver not to bring his master again, since the boy was so clumsy he'd fallen over his own feet and cracked his head open.

I felt wrecked, and I told Jules as much and went home. I needed Christine's comfort, needed her to tell me that everything was alright. I went straight to the library, where I knew she'd be ensconced in her studies. She abandoned her books immediately and came to me, checking my eyes and removing my mask to feel my forehead for fever.

"Reza said you didn't feel well at all this morning."

"No."

"What is it? How do you feel?"

"I told him it's just a mood," I snapped impatiently at the thought of him getting her all upset over me. "Still, I think I'll have a lie down."

"Oh, Erik. I'll send for the doctor."

"No, I just need a rest," I insisted, barely able to meet my Angel's gaze.

"You're working yourself to death over that museum," Christine fussed, tugging at my clothing to ensure that I was safe from drafts and other evil influences. "I wish you'd make a shorter day of it."

"I'm alright." It feels wonderful to have my angel fussing over me; it almost makes me wish I was an invalid. "Christine, come with me?"

"You said you needed to rest. You won't rest if I come," she reminded me.

"I just need you. I feel sad," I confessed. I was quite the pitiful baby; and disgusted with myself as well, begging for her comfort when I'd betrayed her.

"Oh, you poor dear. Of course I'll come with you," she soothed. I saw the worry in her eyes, and it made me feel even more of a dog. She lay close, propped up on one elbow, studying my dreadful face. I stared at the ceiling, frowning.

"Christine, you love me, don't you? Even though I've been bad, you still love me."

"Erik, of course I love you! What do you mean, you've been bad? Oh, my love." She drew my head against her breast, smoothing my hair and making comforting sounds. I closed my eyes, waiting for serenity to descend. Instead, images of other breasts, smaller and darker, flooded into my mind unbidden. I wept with shame, and Christine soothed me, never knowing why I cried.

I wanted to make love to her and say things I couldn't say with words, but that I hoped she'd understand. It was Christine and me, all alone in the world. She was everything I needed, everything I wanted.

"Better now?" she asked at long last.

"Yes. Better. Christine, I—"

"Hm? What is it?" I was beginning to worry her again; I saw it in her eyes.

"I…love you, I just love you."

"And I love you, can you tell?" Better; her eyes were smiling again.

"I can tell, my Angel," I told her honestly.

"Alright, because I'd be glad to show you again."

I did not tell Christine about the Creole Amazon; I determined to lock it away and never, ever, ever think about or have anything to do with that woman again. I did everything I could to be a perfect partner to her.

. . . .>

Gaston had come, ostensibly for another Men's Studies group, but somehow had managed to use his reporter's wiles to get me talking about my life. Currently my chubby friend was incredulous that I did not have a surname; or if I did, I no longer remembered it.

"I suppose I shall have to dig one up. Once Christine is widowed, she'll want to cease living in sin."

"Christine, widowed?" the daroga did not care for the sound of that.

"Settle down, Reza; I will only kill him if he comes around and annoys me. If he stays out of my way, he'll have to die a more natural death. But I can still keep a good thought that I live long enough for Christine to make an honest creature of me."

"Oh, god, Erik," Gaston chuckled, wiping tears from his eyes.

"I adore you, Gaston, you're even better for my vanity than Christine. Have you noticed, Reza, that he dissolves with laughter at every word that I utter?"

"I have indeed. Don't encourage him, Gaston, he is quite bad enough."

"Well, Erik, should the Comte predecease you and you've not come up with a more appropriate choice, I would be honored to lend you my surname, my brother."

"Why, thank you, Gaston, what a kind gesture. 'Erik Leroux'; sounds too dashing for a fiend like me, doesn't it, Daroga?"

"Yes, quite. You need something more sinister, 'Erik Robespierre', perhaps. 'Erik Marat'."

"Reza, I have a delightful idea. Let's demonstrate some of our rope tricks for Gaston."

About this time, the most extraordinary thing happened: Christine joined us. We stood; she glided in.

"Oh, please, gentlemen, there's no need for such formality at home," she demurred, joining Reza on the sofa. We sat in silence, anticipating…whatever she might say.

"Well, don't stop your conversation on my account. I thought I would join you," she smiled. As the, ah, 'husband', all eyes turned to me.

"Ahem, Dear," I opened, "We can't just…continue our conversation with a lady present."

"Good heavens, was your discussion as bad as all that?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"No-oo, but…would you feel comfortable continuing your feminine conversation with a man present?"

"Feminine conversation, Erik? Whatever is feminine conversation?"

In retrospect, I should have realized right then that I was headed for trouble again, but god help me, all I said was:"You know…"

"I assure you that women talk about more than babies and whatever else you think is a suitable feminine topic. I think it would be most healthy for relations among the sexes if we conversed in mixed company regularly," she announced. "Gaston, next time you come, I do wish you would include Madame Leroux."

"But…Madame Leroux and I have not seen each other in years."

"Oh!" Christine exclaimed.

"Yes, my situation parallels your own, actually. As a Catholic, my wife is opposed to divorce, so Jeanne and I are…as you and Erik are."

"Wonderful, then; do bring her along."

"I shall certainly extend the invitation," Gaston smiled—as if he wanted his woman exposed to the sort of intellectual poison that Christine and her co-conspirators were spouting.

"So. What were you discussing, don't let me interrupt," she persisted.

"Actually, we were discussing Erik's lack of a surname," Gaston confessed. "He was suggesting that he'd need to come up with one in case you should ever be free to marry."

"Oh, I don't need his name," Christine chirped, "I have a perfectly good one of my own."

"Darling," I spoke to her as if she was a moron, "it is customary for the woman to take the man's name when they marry."

"It is customary," Christine agreed, "but it does seem rather proprietary, doesn't it?"

"And what name do you propose to give the children of this unnatural union!" I demanded. I was utterly blindsided by this…attack, and I reacted violently to the whole idea. I'd listened patiently to a good deal of suffragette drivel over the past months, but this was far too much for my aching brain. "Or do children remain out of the question?"

Gaston and Reza exchanged sympathetic glances at being on the front line of this conflict. Christine gave me what had become her standard response to any of my outbursts:

"Erik, you're being completely irrational about this." This is delivered in the most superior tone she can muster. Predictably, it pushed me over the brink; not all that difficult if one considers how close to the brink my sanity routinely teeters. I, ah…well, it's rather embarrassing to discuss it after the fact. One has to picture a man in a passionate rage. So, picture me in a passionate rage, only not the face if it bothers you. Right; I grabbed my crotch and roared at her:

"You want one of your own that badly, do you? Simply not content to borrow anymore!"

My friends were trying desperately to remind me about that train. Gaston was even raising his hand like a schoolboy with the correct answer. Christine flushed fiery and leapt to her feet.

"Erik! What is wrong with you?" she demanded.

"No: what is wrong with you, Christine? What happened to that dear, sublime angel who captivated my soul?" I mourned furiously.

"She grew up," she stated flatly. "When will you?"

"As soon as I see a woman to be a man for, I will," I snapped, glaring at her.

"And where are you sleeping tonight?" she threatened.

"Don't trouble yourself, Comtesse." I drained my glass and tossed it in her direction—not aiming to hit her, just for the satisfaction of watching it shatter against the wall in her general proximity. Christine straightened from her frightened crouch and addressed my friends.

"Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me." She left us and I turned to pour myself another brandy. Reza gave an exasperated 'Oh, Erik' and Gaston sat, pensive. When I settled back in my chair, they both looked at me as if I was to give a speech.

"WHAT?" I growled.

"You know you're going to have to apologize for that display," Reza replied, his words dripping with disapproval.

"I will not—and why is it that you immediately and unquestioningly take her side? What is it between you and my woman? Do you want her? Help yourself!"

Reza turned away, shaking his head. Gaston cleared his throat.

"I believe what Reza means is that there are two issues; first the content of the discussion, which I believe is what you are taking exception to, and second, the fact that the discussion did not occur in private, which will be Christine's issue, or one of them, anyway."

"Christine's issue, eh? I beg to differ. What does she mean insulting me in front of you? Did I start this? Who said 'Oh, I don't need his name'? Was that or was that not a slap in the fact—a public slap in the face? How would you take that, Reza? Or you, Gaston? Am I wrong?"

"I don't think you're wrong, Erik," Gaston replied.

"I think you might have handled it more skillfully, and that is what you'll need to apologize for," Reza added.

"Well, I won't. I want an apology this time, by god. I've apologized more than enough during the course of this affair. It never occurs to anyone that she may have wounded me with those words; it only matters if I've hurt her. And for all this special treatment, she still wants the vote and to wear trousers and keep her own name, and I deserve whatever abuse she heaps on, because I'm oppressing her. Ha. I'd be gelded if I tried to oppress her."

"You know, Erik, sometimes I find it's not a case of who's right, but rather who wants peace restored. You don't want to continue at war with your angel," Gaston suggested.

Suddenly I felt exhausted and depressed. I bade my friends goodnight, went up to my coffin, and closed the lid all but a crack.

We never made it up, officially. We had an uneasy truce whereby we each understood that the other would not apologize, and we didn't discuss it. After several days, I had sulked sufficiently to move back into our bed. Several days after that, Christine snuggled up and threw her arm over me to sleep. In the morning, mutual need overtook us, and we made frenzied love.

Afterwards, Christine sighed "Damn you, I can't stay away from you." She sounded disappointed in herself.


	14. Chapter 14

A fortnight went by; then three weeks, and I began to worry about the next monthly women's meeting. I was concerned that the Creole madwoman would come again while Christine was gone. I decided that there was nothing for it; I would go under the Opera House, and stay there until I was positive that Christine had returned from the meeting. I enjoyed my short time in my old home, it was safe and I knew I could be good there. I went home around midnight and looked in on my sleeping angel. I was invigorated from my walk home; I went into my drawing room to sit with a brandy, thinking it would relax me sufficiently for sleep. I closed the door and, setting the brandy down, decided to read. Across the room, something about my coffin drew my attention; I peered at it in the soft light.

The Creole was lying in it.

I raced over and knelt next to the coffin and shook her. She was warm and soft—not dead, not even unconscious, I was sure of it. Just playing dead; whatever sort of game she was playing, I wanted no part of it.

"What the blazes are you doing, woman? What are you doing? Open your eyes, will you? Listen to me! Christine is sleeping just down the hallway, you must leave here. Please! Oh, god!" I sat back on my haunches in despair. She would not answer. She would not respond; she would not leave.

"Fine, then. If you wish to stay here, do so. I am going to bed, and if you are here in the morning, let Christine find you. You're a madwoman. A madwoman!" I shook her again; this time I looked at her sufficiently to realize that her dress was again open to her waist. She lay there, playing dead; I touched her. She remained as if dead for my groping, even when I slid my hands under her skirts. She was most definitely not dead below the waist. It may seem a sick fantasy, but it ignited me nonetheless.

I handled her roughly. I wanted to see her flinch or even cry out. She remained still, but I was able to read her well. The only response I provoked in her was pleasure. She struggled to maintain the charade of lifelessness as my hands abused her.

"I'll make you scream, you devil slut," I threatened. Frustrated, I looked to the Creole for some sign that I was provoking her. At last her face had changed; she wore a strange, knowing smile.

Suddenly, I felt trapped and controlled, powerless to either help myself or resist her. I flew into a murderous rage and snatched the bitch from my coffin. She gasped; I believe it hurt her back, but I didn't care. I had her by the throat, half choking her as we scuffled. She did not show any fear; she clawed my face, wrists, throat; tore my shirt. She managed to get sufficient leverage to land a glancing blow with her knee. I swore and threw her away from me as I had the fop; this knocked the wind from her sufficiently that I had a moment to fall to my knees and groan. She was quicker to her feet and flew at me with a shriek. She succeeded in knocking me over, but it was no trouble for me to roll onto her and subdue her. I held her throat in one hand, and her bony wrists in the other as I dragged her to her feet.

"You mad, demonic bitch," I hissed. Her eyes blazed, but not with anger. This Creole fiend frightened me; I've never seen anyone so utterly mad…and I've known my share of nutters.

"Erik, what are you doing?" Behind me, Christine's sleepy voice, uncomprehending. I wheeled around just as I was, never releasing my grip on the bitch.

"No, Angel, no," I soothed. "You're dreaming, it's a bad dream, but you're safe and warm in your own bed." It was worth a try; sometimes I could mesmerize her with my voice.

"Josette? Erik, let her go; what are you doing?" I saw confusion and horror, anger and pain play across Christine's face as she came fully awake and scanned the scene before her.

"Christine, look at me: see my face, my wrists? Look at my shirt, Darling. I can't let her go, or she'll go for me again."

"No she won't. Let her go," Christine intoned with an eerie calm. "Get out of this house, Josette." Christine stood holding the door open, staring blankly at an empty space on the floor; waiting. The bitch did not go for me again when I freed her; she collected herself slowly, painfully and left. When she was sure the Creole had gone, Christine turned back toward the bedroom, looking very, very tired. I rushed after her.

"Christine—"

"No, Erik, I'm going to sleep now. If you want to speak with me, you can do so in the morning."

I sent word to Jules that I would not be in to work, and that if some crisis should occur, he should send for me immediately. I brought coffee upstairs; I could not face my Persian friend. I tried to read; couldn't. I tried to compose my thoughts, think of what I would say to her; also useless. Too soon there came a knock on my door. Christine held a steaming mug of coffee and refused to step into the room. She looked pale and small and seemed reluctant to look into my eyes.

"I don't want to talk up here. Let's go to the library," she said flatly.

Christine settled on the sofa. I saw that she did not want me to sit so near, so I went to the chair opposite. I began to speak as soon as I sat.

"It's not what you think."

"How do you know what I think?" she asked, emotionless. I would have preferred her screaming, crying and slapping me. This cool, calm, numb Christine was fearsome.

"Well, it's not what it looked like, then."

"It looked like you had Josette by the throat and hands. It looked like both of you were half dressed. It looked like you were struggling together, fighting. She had scratched your face and wrists, and you were bruising her neck. That is how it looked. Is that not what it was?"

"Yes, but…" I sighed. It was going terribly wrong. "May I tell you what happened?"

She thought for an agonizing long time before she said "Yes."

"The night of your women's meeting, when we met Gaston, he gave me a cigar, and I went out to the alley to smoke it. I was nearly done when this woman approached me. She said she knew me; that she'd been at the Opera House the night of the fire, and had nearly been killed in the crush of bodies. I tried to tell her it was not me, I don't know why; I was afraid of discovery, I suppose. Apparently she had memories of the night, because she fainted. When I got her back to her feet, she regarded me strangely and left. You can ask Reza and Gaston, I summoned them when she fainted."

"Then, last month, when you met at the house and then went off to the meeting, I was at the piano, and suddenly there she was. I demanded to know what she wanted, how she'd come to be left behind. She said she wanted to learn why I disturbed her so."

Christine dropped her head and blinked rapidly several times. I waited for her to raise her head before continuing.

"I never touched her, Christine, honestly."

"But she touched you."

"Yes," I admitted.

"Tell me."

"I wish you wouldn't—"

"Yes. I know," she interrupted. She waited.

"She unbuttoned her dress and slipped it off her shoulders. I told her to go. I said anything I could think of to make her leave, to no avail. Please can I stop now?" I begged her.

"Is that all?"

"No…" I admitted.

"No." Again she waited.

I wanted desperately to look at her, to search her face and learn her reaction when I told her the rest, but I couldn't. I stared at my hands.

"She fell to her knees before me, and… touched me in various ways. Then she left me, but she threatened to return. And that is why I went down to my lair last night; because I was afraid she would come while you were out. I came home and looked in on you sleeping, then went into my room to read until I felt sleepy. I don't know how she got in, but when I went into my room, she was there, lying in my coffin. She had unbuttoned her dress again, and she lay there, pretending to be dead. She…wanted me to…use her as if she was dead."

I felt like a dog as I watched Christine struggle for self-control. I feared she might be ill.

"And did you?" she whispered finally.

"I touched her," I confessed. She bit her lip quickly.

"How did you come to be choking her, then, after—"

"I got angry, Christine! She's a madwoman; I was furious at her for tormenting me! I felt trapped, and helpless, and heartsick for betraying you. Angel, why would I ever want to betray you? How long have I waited for you? Don't you know…" my voice broke. I couldn't say anymore.

After several minutes, Christine asked softly, "Why couldn't you just run from her, Erik?" It was a good question.

"I don't know," I owned finally. She nodded. Several more minutes of silence passed.

"Perhaps you didn't want to…run, that is."

"No, Christine, that's not so. Please don't say that…" She rose and began shuffling out.

"I need more coffee," she yawned. I was surprised, to say the least, that she was leaving in the middle of this conversation.

"Christine, are you coming back?" I worried.

"Of course," she replied sleepily.

"Christine…"

"Yes, Erik," she sighed. I suppose under the circumstances my childish clinging was wearing on her.

"I love you. You still love me, don't you?"

My angel turned back to me. Drawing near, she handed me her coffee cup with a smile and lifted my mask away.

"Of course I still love you," she purred. She gave me the sweetest, tenderest kiss; it took my breath away. Then she slapped me senseless, twice; took her coffee cup and left crying.

When Christine returned, her eyes were red and puffy. She plopped down on the sofa again. I wanted to cry, but I didn't want Christine to think that I was trying to gain her sympathy.

"Christine, I'm sorry. I just wanted to say that."

She nodded. "I need some time to understand this, Erik. Don't press me."

"Alright, what do you want me to do then?" I worried.

"Just…don't press me. I'll let you know."


	15. Chapter 15

I did not see Christine until dinner. I stayed in my room, pretending to sketch, pretending to play, staring at the goddamn coffin, staring out the window at nothing. All I could think was, What's going to happen? And since I didn't know, since it wasn't in my hands…my mind just kept running round and round on the same little track. What's going to happen, what's going to happen, what's going to happen? I wept repeatedly, realizing that I couldn't stop thinking about it, but I couldn't think about anything else.

Dinner was awful. We both looked like someone had died, Reza had no idea what was wrong, and the conversation was forced and desperately cheerful. Christine wouldn't look at me, and I felt uglier than ever before. I drank half again as much wine at dinner as I normally would have; she took more than her usual as well. I guess we were both thinking that at least we'd be able to pass out and get some sleep tonight.

When she left the table, I supposed I would have to go into the parlor and try to make some conversation with Reza. It was unbearable looking at him; the love and concern he felt for us both was etched on his face and I had no idea what I would tell him. Yes, I did. I would tell him nothing.

But first, I stepped to the bottom of the staircase and called to Christine. She paused, three steps from the top.

"Yes?"

I walked up to her. "Christine, could we start again? Please?"

"Not yet," she replied immediately. I drew a sobbing breath.

"I was prepared in case you said something like that; honestly, I wasn't going to get upset. I'm just…Christine, punish me, won't you? Anything, please, but let it be done with! I can't take this," I confessed.

"Erik, I'm sorry," she sympathized. "I can imagine how alone you must feel, but this will not happen on your terms, or according to your schedule. Even I can't tell you how long I will feel the way I do right now."

"How do you feel right now, Christine?"

"I feel hollow inside. I feel abandoned, because the person I turn to when I'm sad can't comfort me this time. I feel betrayed by the last person on earth that I ever imagined would betray me. I feel terrified, because even though you tell me she's insane…I understand perfectly why you disturb her so. I never dreamed I would have to feel jealousy over you…and I'm infuriated with you for making me feel it!" she wiped her tears away edgily. "Go away."

I felt too weak to move, but Christine turned away from me decisively. I understood; she couldn't be concerned with my pathetic importuning. So I went down to the parlor, where the daroga all but pounced on me.

"Erik! Erik…what is it? What is wrong?"

"I can't say anything, Reza," my lip was quivering. I felt like a fool and a baby. I was so tired of crying…

"Erik…" he clasped my hand between his.

"I've made a terrible mistake, but I can't talk about it. Don't worry about me; be good to Christine if you can." I poured us a couple of cognacs.

"I am sorry. I pray that everything will sort itself out. I hope you will let me do for you what I can."

I nodded. "Thank you." We sat silently, just drinking. I was grateful for his presence, his wiliness to be a comfort to a man undeserving of any comfort. I began to feel drowsy fairly soon; I had enough liquor in me to ensure it.

"I'm going, Reza. I hope I sleep tonight; I didn't last night."

He nodded.

I saw the light on in Christine's bedroom. I knocked and she came to the door. She'd been crying.

"I just wanted to say goodnight."

"You may sleep here, if you want to. You're still my man," she replied, but she still wouldn't look at me.

"No…thank you. I love you."

"I love you, too. Good night."

I went into my room and realized that, tired as I was, I couldn't possibly lay down in that coffin; I'd have to get a new one. I tried to get comfortable in the chair. Damn that Creole. As I fell asleep, I thought about how good it would feel to have my hands around her throat again.

Next morning, Christine caught me on the way down to breakfast. She beckoned me into her room.

"Erik, if there is something Josette…" she flushed, "something you…need, couldn't you tell me? Why—"

"No, Christine." I had to stop her. I couldn't bear to think of her tormented by such questions. "Don't think of these things, my Precious," she let me stroke her cheek. "I need nothing but you, you mustn't doubt it."

"But that's not true, how could it be true, if you—"

"It isn't like that, Christine, no. Believe me. She just happened to be here, and—"

"Just happened to be here?" she pressed her hand to her forehead, as if the struggle to understand was causing her pain. "What do you mean?"

"Forget it, child," I pleaded. "There's nothing there you need understand, I swear."

"Why won't you let me?" She wormed her way into my arms. "Tell me," she whispered.

"Stop it!" I ran from her, ashamed. I downed some coffee in the kitchen and rushed to the catacombs beneath the Louvre, the only fit place for a monster like me.

I went around to an undertaker and selected a new coffin. It was different than the other; the interior was more posh. They advised that they would remove the old one and deliver the new one that very day. They were as good as their word, for when I returned home, I was met at the door by Christine, frantic.

"Erik, you must speak with Reza. He saw the new coffin delivered, and with the way we've been behaving, he believes you're dying. I tried to explain to him that it was just an argument, but he won't be convinced. Oh, Erik, Erik! You must speak with him!" She was fairly wringing her hands. I nodded.

I entered the parlor and the daroga turned hollow, wounded eyes on me.

"Why couldn't you tell me you were ill?" he erupted. "After all these years of friendship, Erik! I have never wanted to imagine you heartless, but—"

"I'm not dying any more than you are, Reza," I grimaced, dropping into a chair. "It is difficult living in such close proximity with you; you do realize that? I have no patience with people worrying over me, expecting confidences of me! I could've stayed below, but no, you wouldn't have it, would you? And now I'm here and this sordid marital farce must be played out on a public stage! I'm not dying, damn you! I have a right to ruin my life with some degree of privacy, haven't I?"

"What do you expect me to think? The two of you floating around here like shades, silent and tearful, and a new coffin delivered?" he demanded.

"Oh, for god's sake, man, don't go out of your way for some ridiculous explanation when a simple one suffices! Why would I send for a new coffin?"

"Because you're dying!"

"No. Why would I—I, Erik—send for a new coffin?" I waited and watched Reza's eyes dart about, helplessly searching for an explanation. He could not think; I lost the wee dram of patience I possessed.

"BECAUSE I NEED A NEW BED, MAN! Use your head. No one's dying; I've stepped in it again and I need a place to sleep." I rubbed my aching forehead.

"Oh. OH!" my Persian grandmother brightened considerably. "Silly me; for a moment my fears got the better of me and I forgot who I was dealing with. Of course, you need a new bed." He pressed a brandy into my hand. "What is wrong with your old bed? How does one wear out a coffin?"

"Ha. Ha. I don't wish to discuss this any further. Christine insisted I calm your nerves as to my relative morbidity, but now that is accomplished, this conversation is hereby terminated."

"Erik, you poor man. What have you done this time?" he chuckled. Now that I'd rejoined the living, he felt it appropriate to regard me as a source of endless amusement once again.

"I'll tell you about if ever I emerge from the other end of the tunnel; no doubt it will afford you a great laugh. Meanwhile, you'll just have to let your fantasies run amuck."

"Fantasies run amuck? Could it really be as delicious as all that?"

"Reza, I believe you're drooling. You should make an attempt at a…social life; even I've got one now."

"It can't be much of a 'social life' if you're back to sleeping in a coffin," he reminded me.

"Touché. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll see what sort of damage I can do elsewhere."

"Will you two be joining me for dinner?"

"Depends. She may be in the midst of flaying me. Do feel free to start without us."


	16. Chapter 16

I made my way to the library to reassure Christine that I'd put Reza's fears to rest without divulging the particulars of our…unfortunate situation. She seemed quite relieved and actually rewarded me with a shadow smile.

"Right, well, I'm going to go have a look at my new bed…by the way, Reza would really appreciate our joining him for dinner if we can manage it." I was nearly out the door when I felt Christine's little fingers tugging at my sleeve.

"May I see? Your new…coffin."

"Oh, of course."

I noticed that Christine's lips paled and tightened when she entered my room again, but soon she was drawn in by the new box. She ran her hands over the luxe burgundy velvet and satin interior.

"Oooh, Erik, so sumptuous!" she cooed.

"Yes, well, ha ha; I'm worth it."

"It looks bigger than the other."

"Perhaps that is the shape…it doesn't really do to try it out in the shop, so I don't know," I admitted. I slipped out of my shoes, coat and waistcoat and slipped down to give it a try. "About the same, really," I appraised. "I think it is the shape after all."

Before I was able to clamber out of my coffin, Christine popped on top of me. Youth.

"Christine, this isn't necessary," I advised, stiffly.

"I know, but it's quite cozy, really. I've always wondered. Erik, kiss…" she instructed, loosening my shirt.

"Please don't. I don't feel right about this," I sighed.

"Why not?" she purred, peppering my chest with kisses. "What does she do that I can't? Show me."

How does one explain dark, soulless rot to an angel of light? If there is a way, I don't know what it is. I tried to lift Christine out, but she wouldn't release me.

"Erik, you can't keep running away from me! How will we ever make a life together if you run away whenever troubles surface?" she demanded.

"Running away has served me bloody well for a good long time, Comtesse!" I snapped.

"Why won't you let me be what you want?" she mourned.

"Because it's not what I want! It's not what you want!"

"It's not what you want?" she cried. "Liar!" She scrambled to her feet, giving me a knee in the gut in the process. She pushed the heavy drapes aside to stare out at the grey and purple sky. I padded up behind her, uncertain as to whether I should touch her or not. Everything was uncertain anymore...it was the uncertainty I hated most of all, I think.

"I want to be normal with you, Christine. You're the only chance I have to be normal, you must see that."

"Well, if you really wanted to be normal, that would be fine, but you don't do you? If you wanted to be normal we'd never be having this conversation," she replied tartly.

I closed the lid on my box and sat down, head in hands. "It was a mistake, for god's sake, Christine." She sat beside me. "And you're wrong; I've always wanted to be normal."

"It's not as if anyone would know what we got up to, Erik. Who's to say you're normal or not?"

"It almost sounds reasonable, the way you say it," I scoffed. "You'd know, and I'd know—isn't that enough?"

"I am afraid of losing you," she admitted, so quietly I could scarcely hear her, "if I can't please you."

"But you do please me," I insisted. I caught her hands in my own and covered them with kisses where they lay in her lap. She was crying so hard, she couldn't even realize the absurdity of what she was saying.

"Christine, how can you imagine you'll lose me? Surely you don't believe there are women lined up awaiting their chance with me? Have you forgotten? Look at me, my Love."

"You don't see yourself," she insisted. "You don't know…"

"I see myself every day, Christine; I admit it's flattering, but I think it's you who doesn't see."

"Josette saw," she declared flatly.

I sighed. "Christine, it feels like a knife whenever you say that."

"It feels like a knife whenever I think of it," she countered.

"I don't see that we are accomplishing anything here," I grumbled. "You're laboring under some delusion that I'm a highly desirable catch, and if seeing me maskless as often as you have can't convince you otherwise, I don't know what could." I strode to the window, irritable.

"Erik—"

"Hush, Christine. You're behaving like a foolish little chorus girl, and I dislike it intensely. I told you that Creole bitch was a madwoman; now, you'll either forgive me my indiscretion or you will not. I do not intend to discuss my peccadilloes with you, and I do not intend to listen to you carry on as if I'm something worth losing." I snapped. Imagine the idea of a beautiful woman like her, worrying that some other woman might actually spirit a monster like me away!

Several tense, silent moments later, Christine tugged at my sleeve again. I turned, ready to give battle, but she slipped her arms around my neck.

"You are to me," she whispered. Oh, god; feeling her precious, fragrant warmth again; I'd been starving. My tears trickled into her hair.

"Why are you here, Angel?" I wondered aloud, "I'll never be worthy of you. I don't know how to begin to be worthy of you."


	17. Chapter 17

I went to work feeling that it was possible to get my life back, and get Christine back too. She'd slept in my arms, and I felt her love and forgiveness. I'd tried to press my luck like the idiot I am, and she told me as gently as possible that she wasn't ready to let me quite so close just yet. I whined like a baby, of course, and protested crippling discomfort; pain even. She was sympathetic, but fundamentally unmoved. I got a kiss and a quick squeeze for my trouble. Funny how quickly a man convinces himself that he can't live without a bit of fluff. All my protests to the contrary, I did manage to fall asleep eventually.

I nearly got through the entire day, but the mad Creole sniffed me out like a trembling rabbit run before a pack of hounds. Had I known she was coming for me, I would have broken my own neck the way some say rabbits can. The men were just clearing out when Jules brought her to me. I was mortified that he should see her—or that he should see me. Jules has a wise foreman's way about him, and in my panic I was convinced that he could read the history of my association with the bitch on my face. I scuttled behind him, dear Jules; my sheltering oak tree against the Creole maelstrom.

"Get her out, Jules!" I shrieked, a hysterical girl in a roomful of rats. "Get her out!" She tried to tussle with him, but my darling Jules is a boulder of a man. He didn't stand on the ceremony of her femininity, but carted her out like a bony sack—a handful of hair, a handful of bustle. My hero, my savior.

When Jules returned, he was amused at the sniveling, trembling mess I presented.

"You spilled wine all over yourself, Mr Mask," his eyes were dancing in his granite face.

"Better than pissing myself."

"Who was that skinny devil?"

"Oh," I smiled wanly, "an old—"

"And has your taste improved?" he demanded; I understood he would be unwilling to come to my aid repeatedly if I refused to learn my lesson.

"Why, thank you, Jules; it has indeed. I shall convey your regards to the Comtesse, since you've saved her the trouble of castrating me this day."

He nodded, grunting. "I want to go home. Can I leave you safely or should I carry you home first?"

"I'll walk, thank you. Just hold my hand."

"I'll never understand gentlemen's humor."

My run of magnificent good fortune continued unabated. I tried to slither quietly upstairs to remove the winy clothes; who should meet me on the stairway but my darling Christine?

"Erik!" her smile faded as she caught a whiff. "What sort of party have you had today?"

"Oh…clumsy accident." She blessed me with a glowing smile and slipped her arms around my neck.

"Darling, you'll smell as badly as I soon," I protested anxiously.

"Alright…" she drew away slightly. "Erik, you've become an incredibly bad liar since I've fallen in love with you."

In the next instant, Christine delivered a wicked blow to my gut and scrambled furiously for the bedroom. For a tiny girl, she has a remarkably strong punch. When I recovered my breath, I went after her. Infuriated, I didn't bother to knock. She didn't bother to acknowledge me; she was throwing her things into a carpet bag.

"What the hell was that for?" I demanded.

"You guilty dog, it's in your eyes!"

"Goddammit, Christine, I've no control over her coming after me." I fell to my knees, clutching her skirts. "I didn't touch her. You can come along tomorrow and talk to my foreman if you don't believe me!"

"You expect me to believe you turned her away!"

"No, I expect you to believe that Jules carried her off for me. She won't let me alone, Christine," I was a few moments from a sobbing breakdown. "I need to go back underground! I'm not meant to live up here."

Unmoved, she collected fresh clothing for me and tossed it onto the bed.

"Get dressed." I must've been staring at her with some ridiculous expression on my face. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Erik, I'm not going to look at your miserable bones. If you want to, go dress in your coffin," she grumbled.

"You don't believe me." I was relieved to see that she wasn't packing to leave me anymore, but neither was she overwhelmed with tender feelings. Miserable bones? That was uncalled for.

"I believe you", she snapped irritably. "I don't trust you, is all."

"Oh, well, that should be easily fixed, darling. I'll just hang myself and have done with it."

A bit more experience of women should improve my understanding of when to display my tediously warped sense of humor, if I live long enough. I reflected on this after she bounced a house slipper off my head.

"If it's all the same to you, I've had enough ill treatment for a fortnight, Madame!"

"Don't you take that tone with me, you adolescent pervert! I'm so gratified you find my lack of trust amusing!" she screamed. In her extremity, her hair was coming loose of its pins, and she was beginning to resemble…um, Medusa, actually. I was reminded of that old saw, 'If looks could kill…'.

Things were sliding into the morass of anti-bliss at an alarming rate. She stomped to the drawer which held all her delightful frilly things, collected a handful, and resumed stuffing her carpet bag. "I should have left the second you made your pathetic confession—I should have thrown you out with her and let you make your own way!"

"Thrown ME out?" I roared. "This is MY friend's home! If you'll remember, it was through my good offices that you're not peddling your nearly-new bottom on the street this minute! Make my way indeed—I was making my way before your parents met!"

"And I see what a fine, adult example you've made of your life!" Christine sneered. "Groping any marginally human female that doesn't run screaming at the sight of you! You're no different than Raoul; you're all pigs," she spat.

That did me in. I grabbed her and shook her furiously.

"Oh, no you won't, you won't lump me in with that creature," I threatened.

"Creature!" she laughed. "HE never rattled my brains in my head! Are you trying to make me faint so you can have your fun?"

"OH, GODDAMMIT!" my witty repartee abandoned me. I fell back on my years in the theatre: Exit Stage Left.

"I'll thank you not to rattle the windows out of the casements, Erik," the daroga disapproved.

"Shut up!" I made for the cognac. And a cigar.

"Not that you shouldn't slam the door at all, mind you. I understand the subtleties of house living are lost on a troglodyte…just leave the pieces so it can be rebuilt."

"You haven't any opiates, have you?"

"Good God! Wouldn't you prefer to go round the side and dash your brains out against the brick?"

"Oh, yes, I'd quite forgotten. Brick and block—and me a mason."

"As usual, I'd rather die than intrude on a tender domestic scene—"

"Right, let me get my rope and I'll see to it—"

"But are you really groping marginally human females?" You should have seen the grin on my old friend's face.

"You're delighting in this. Haven't you got a life yet?" I demanded.

"No; yours is more convoluted and fascinating than anything I could dream up."

"Let me help you," I snapped.

"And did you really say something about peddling her 'nearly-new bottom'?" He chuckled. "Delicious! You do love diving in over your head don't you?"

"It's not funny. She's packing her bags up there, you hateful old bastard."

"You smell like a fruity Bordeaux," he observed.

"Mm, it was too fruity. The former vintage had a woodsier note, much more pleasant."

"Still, it makes a lovely cologne."

"Don't get fresh with me when I'm in extremity."

"I was hoping to stake a claim quickly and catch you on the rebound," he confessed.

"I'll think on it. Doubtless we'd never argue the way Christine and I do. How do you feel about my having the odd grope with a marginally human female?"

"You didn't really! You'd never mistreat Christine so!" he frowned.

"I didn't intend to! She came after me, Reza, what sort of experience have I in spurning a madwoman's advances?"

"Did you take your mask off?"

"Yea."

"Still came after you?" he guessed.

"Still. Christine found out, and I confessed everything."

"Good move; they can smell the lie on a man, as you know," he nodded.

"Well, what do you think, but the bitch came for me at the Louvre today?" I continued.

"And threw a bottle of wine at you?"

"NO! I was trying to settle myself while Jules threw her out. I was rattling like a skeleton—ha ha."

"So you didn't—"

"God, no—never did, really. Would have done, I guess, if we hadn't got interrupted. But now all I want is for her to let me be, and Christine acts as if it's my fault! As if I'm bringing it on myself somehow!" I complained.

Men are so much easier to deal with than women. Immediately, my beloved Persian friend grasped the heart of the matter: no hysteria, no weeping, no accusations. He saw me instantly for the blameless victim I truly was and moved on to searching for a solution to my untidy predicament..

"I gather you don't have much confidence in your ability to resist her…charms…if indeed she possesses any. 'Marginally human?'" he wondered.

"She has a certain…morbid appeal to a man with…specialized interests," I weaseled.

"She lets you tie her up."

"No. Stop."

"She ties YOU up," he guessed again.

"NO! Will you leave it?" I fussed. I smoked and drank and tried to ignore him. The question stood like an elephant in the middle of the parlor.

Finally, I confessed. "She plays dead, alright? Now will you leave it?" I blushed hot scarled under my mask.

He grinned ghoulishly. "How fascinating that you two should have found each other."

"Yes…well…we give off a scent, recognizable only to a fellow…ah…" I searched for the word.

"Freak, I think," Reza offered.

"Yes, freak; thanks, old friend." I grimaced.

After a moment, he asked, "What do you intend to do, then?"

"About what? Whom?"

"Your…ah…"

"Oh. Her. No idea. Hide? Move back underground?"

"Glad to see you're approaching it head-on like a man," he replied tartly. "And about Christine?"

I shrugged. "As a very wise man once said, 'Grovel'".


	18. Chapter 18

I was reading in my coffin around eleven. Someone knocked.

"Yes."

Christine cracked the door, frowned in disapproval at me lounging in my box. It's perfectly comfortable, really; and I happen to enjoy the snug feeling. I don't understand the problem.

"I'm sorry I called you a pig."

"I don't mind being a pig. I mind being a pig like Raoul."

"Will you come and lie down with me? I'm cold, and I miss you."

I wanted to ask if that was 'lie down', or 'Lie Down'; 'I miss you', or "I Miss You', but I thought better of it. Similarly, I rejected the idea of inviting her into my box. Maybe the house slipper had knocked something into place.

As we slipped between cool sheets, I felt I had to ask at least one question. I was uncertain as to the current protocol. Had we returned to pre-argument forgiveness, or was this truce confined strictly to the use of the term 'pig'?

"Um, shall I hold you?"

"Yes." She answered with no hesitation. I slipped grateful arms around her and she smiled. I sighed with contentment at her familiar fragrance.

"Nice," she confessed. Her fingers were teasing the back of my neck. I knew she meant nothing by it—my brain knew she meant nothing by it. Other parts of me were more inclined to read something into her seemingly innocent gesture. Still, when she kissed me, her reluctance to release me made me wonder.

I ventured a caress to her breast, squinting in case I got my face slapped for my trouble. No; she purred and her breath in my ear was musical.

"Erik, touch me…underneath my gown."

"Take it off," I recommended, sliding down her body. "I want to kiss this flower, Christine."

Suddenly she clutched my shoulder.

"Did you kiss her?"

I rolled away with a disgusted sigh. To say I was in the mood for something other than more argument was to grossly understate.

"No, Christine, I did not kiss her; not even on the hand, if that makes you feel any better. Is this how it's going to be, then?" I demanded.

"No, it's not how it's going to be, it just suddenly occurred to me."

"I see," I replied sourly.

"Would you prefer I didn't ask and just…lie there, wondering, while you do your business?" she fussed.

"Actually, at this moment, yes; I would have done."

"Fine, then, come along!" she cried, shucking her gown. "Do it, if that's all you care about my involvement in the proceedings, you randy old goat."

First a pig; now a goat.

"You know Christine, I realize that I've been a bad boy, but I'm tired of the constant sniping, and I especially dislike being teased--"

"Teased!" she gasped. "Is that what you think it is?"

"What would you call it? Inviting me in, provoking me, dousing me in ice water." She caught me looking at her and clutched the sheet to her breast. I raised my eyebrows at her. "As you see."

"I didn't invite you in to provoke you, or to douse you in ice water. I wanted…what you do," she said sadly. She looked as disappointed as I felt. I reached out and covered her hand with mine in a conciliatory gesture. She dropped her hand and the sheet with it.

"Well then?" I suggested. I leaned over to kiss her, but she inclined away from me. I followed her down til she was flat on her back. I took my weight on my arms; she hooked her legs around mine.

"This is pleasant," she whispered, moving her hips. When our lips met, her tongue penetrated me insistently.

"Noooo, this is heavenly," I corrected. I resumed my journey over her delectable form, but she halted my progress again.

"Let me," she suggested. We rolled over and she pressed me down. She kissed and caressed me as I always had done to her. I closed my eyes and wondered if this was how she felt, lying passive and being done to. Likely, it was more natural to her to simply lie there and take; I kept feeling there was something I should be doing.

She sat up to take me inside her, then stretched out over me again. She took my part as near as possible; it was not unpleasant, but…odd. As her arousal increased, she nuzzled my ear and whispered, "Just once, I wish I could have your body, Erik. I wish I could feel what it's like to come inside you and feel you hug me…"

It was the most extraordinary thing I'd ever heard, and it drove me wild. I gripped her bottom, preparing to thrust, but she sensed this and halted me. "No Erik; let me."

"Faster, then. More," I demanded. She trapped my hands above my head and rocked with me.

"Oh. Christine, I can't…"

"Don't hold back, my Angel; give it to me," she breathed. It was astonishing to hear my own words on her lips. As I poured into her, it felt as if I would never stop; perhaps I lost consciousness. Christine covered my face with kisses while I floated back to earth.

"You make a charming phantom," I sighed.

"You make a delightful Christine," she giggled. We fell into contagious laughter; even at the time I think neither of us could have said what we were laughing at. When our giddiness subsided, we realized we'd worked up an appetite. She slipped into her gown, I into my trousers and we crept downstairs to raid the kitchen. Something about this escapade renewed our mutual hilarity. Even as we turned, bumping into each other, or knocking things over, making a fair amount of noise for the time of night, we were constantly scolding each other to be quiet. We escaped the kitchen with a bottle of wine and nearly half a frangipane tart. Uptairs, Christine drew me into my room.

"Let's have a picnic!" Christine glowed. She looked as happy as I'd ever seen her, inexplicably. I poured the wine and watched her enjoy the tart. She flushed when she noticed me studying her.

"The tart's delicious, Erik; you're sure you don't want some?"

"Some what?" I smiled, deliberately obtuse.

"Tart…" she reminded me.

"Mm. I'd love some," I replied, raising an eyebrow.

"What are we talking about now?" she asked, coyly, setting her plate aside.

I took her feet onto my lap and caressed them. "You have such comely little feet…I'm talking about dessert…what are you talking about?"

"Dessert," she smiled.

"Mm. About dessert; I have this posh new bed here…"

"And?"

"And it needs…christening, if you will…I was hoping you could help."

Christine reclaimed her feet and considered what to do about my trouser buttons. At last she agreed. "Alright; but I'm not going to keep still."

"Madame, you have truly made my night."

>

"You're not moving too well this morning, Erik," Reza worried.

"Divine retribution," I admitted, caressing the coffee mug my dear friend Darius pressed on me silently.

"For?"

"Moving too well, if not too cleverly, last night."

"I'd like to offer congratulations, but I hope there's been no permanent damage." I could hear the amusement creeping into his voice.

"Oh no. Stupid mistake. Sometimes I forget that a coffin is designed with the quietest of inhabitants in mind."

"What in the world were you using the coffin—" he paused as recognition dawned. "What happened? Never mind. Never mind."

I told him anyway. I have no explanation for my behavior.

"Lid. Heavy. Ouch." I glared at him, to no avail.

When I'd had enough of his all but falling out of his chair laughing, I remarked, "Yes, the Comtesse found it endlessly amusing as well. And you people have the temerity to suggest that I am warped."

Christine floated in, looking sunny and well-loved. "Good morning, my love," she purred, giving me upstairs sort of kiss right at the breakfast table. For some reason, I felt inordinately proud of that. "Must you go to work today?" she asked invitingly.

"I'm afraid so, Darling," I replied.

Reza looked on, bemused. "I am glad the honeymoon is resumed."

Christine giggled. Before taking her seat, she whispered into my ear: "Guess what we forgot? Our English friend…"

When I realized what she was referring to, the room began to spin; then everything went black.


	19. Chapter 19

Christine revived me easily enough, but when I sat up, I was still a bit woozy.

"I need a brandy."

"Erik, it's not even half-eight in the morning," the daroga reminded me. He was hovering; no doubt taking sadistic delight in my extremity.

"Bugger the time! I want a cigar, too!"

"Erik," Christine soothed, "there's no reason for you to panic. I only mentioned it because I thought you might find it funny."

"Funny. Oh, yes, it's…funny. Christine, you are a very strange girl."

"Well, that goes without saying; otherwise she wouldn't be here," Reza contributed.

"I have a good mind to make you a new cravat," I snapped. "Make yourself useful, old man, and get me my liquor!"

He toddled off, mumbling good-naturedly about me ordering him about in his own house.

Once he was out of earshot, I turned to Christine.

"I hate to take a page from your music, Darling, but turnabout is fair play. We must discuss this."

"Erik, you know it wasn't planned, it just happened," she insisted.

"Oh. Right. Well…we should still discuss it. That is to say, if…"

"Yes, Love, I know what you're getting at," she smiled.

"Well…you see; I would find it necessary to press your husband to divorce you. To, ah, legitimize things…"

Christine laughed, kissed my cheek and rumpled my hair. The last elicited a grumble; I hate that. I do not like to be mussed.

"Why, you quaint, old-fashioned darling! If that's a proposal, I accept."

I had no idea it was a proposal, but I suppose it was. It didn't start out to be a proposal. Christine has a way of turning my fairly formidable intellect inside out. Then, she kissed me in such a way that work fast became the last thing on my mind.

"Well, I have to go to work right now," I stuttered reluctantly. "I'll challenge him to a duel on Sunday."

"Erik! You can't duel on the Lord's Day!" I had to study her for a moment to determine whether she was truly serious. She was.

"Christine…you're…living in sin," I reminded her gently.

Reza reappeared with my brandy and cigar, both of which Christine snatched from him.

"See here, I won't marry you if you're going to be a shrew," I threatened.

"Marry? You're getting married?"

"Reza, butt out!"

Whenever I was not occupied with work, my mind would return to the idea of marrying Christine. It didn't seem particularly important to her, but the more I considered it, the more I realized that I really wanted it. I don't know what I imagined it would accomplish, and it meant we would have to revisit the dreaded Name Question, but by day's end I had scribbled a letter to the boy, requesting a meeting to discuss 'a personal matter'.

I knew enough of his petty psyche to realize that my asking him to divorce her was a guarantee that he'd never do it. To be fair, were the situation reversed, I'd behave identically. Fortunately, Christine's increasing involvement with the Women's Rights…tea party… loomed on our mutual horizon. I knew I could threaten him with that, and the attendant disgrace to his name. On the other side, however, was his stubborn insistence that this was some 'phase' Christine was going through, and that any minute, she'd wake up, have a look at the face on the pillow beside her, and run screaming all the way home. So, while I knew I would not be exhausted by engaging in a battle of wits with Blonde Beauty, it would require considerable patience on my part not to hang him from his own stately old tree, on his impeccably-landscaped drive, leading to his breathlessly fashionable chateau. Dealing with stupid people can wear me down to a sniveling wreck with blinding speed.

I sent the letter off by private courier, resolving to say nothing to Christine until I actually had something to say.

The day passed calmly enough. No Creole succubus, so it was a success. Christine was bouncing when I returned home. She collected Reza and I, and announced that we were to have houseguests in two week's time.

"I wrote to these dear ladies, and they're coming to visit and speak to our women's group!" she squealed. "I hope you don't mind, Reza, I told them they could be our guests. We'll give them our room; Erik and I can—"

I erupted into a fit of strategic coughing. I know it's only an illusion of privacy we maintain; perhaps I am a prude, but I balked at the idea of Christine discussing our sleeping arrangements with Reza.

"Christine, I will thank you to at least maintain a pretense of propriety while these women are here."

"Pretense of propriety?" she echoed, apparently confused.

"Yes. You know, pretend that you and I aren't…doing…what we're doing."

"Erik, you're so funny sometimes," she confessed tenderly.

"I know, but humor me."

"Alright. I'll introduce you as my grandfather," she giggled.

"Ha. Ha."

"I think it's marvelous, Christine!" the ever hospitable Reza cried. "Where are they coming from?"

"America," she chirped blithely.

Reza gulped in stunned silence. I exploded.

"Two AMERICAN women? Christine, absolutely not! Suffragettes are bad enough, but AMERICAN suffragettes--god help me, no."

"Erik, I live here too! They're coming as my guests. All you have to do is be pleasant over meals. Even you should be able to manage that!" she objected.

"Absolutely out of the question. No. No. I will not remain under the same roof with two American Amazons. Christine—" I leaned forward meaningfully, "I would think you of all people would be able to understand why I don't want…suffragettes in the house." Already I was suffering palpitations, imagining them accosting me in a brace.

"Erik, they're elderly ladies; you're upsetting yourself for nothing," Christine assured me.

"How elderly?" I demanded, skeptical.

"Older than you, my Love."

"There, you see? Ancient!" the daroga interrupted.

"Go to hell!" I snapped.

"May we know their names, Christine?" Reza asked, ignoring me. Why was he being so damned accommodating? I'd take him in hand soon enough.

"Yes; Susan Anthony and Elizabeth Stanton."

"And how did they manage to murder their husbands?" I growled.

I sulked through dinner until I could get Reza alone and tell him that it was not possible for those water buffaloes to stay here. Of course, Christine had to rush out directly to tell all her ladies the news.

Reza greeted me with a big smile, all ready to engage in a friendly little conversation.

"Oh no, my man. You'll tell me what you mean by giving Christine permission to allow those beasts to move in here!" I poured drinks. "I ought to throw this at you," I remarked, handing him his cognac.

"Erik, I'm sure they're lovely ladies," he protested.

"HAH. American suffragettes? Don't be ridiculous. How will we sleep while they're here?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean we'll have to sit awake, protecting our…assets."

Reza laughed. "You'll worry yourself into a hospital stay if you don't settle. Christine's friends are welcome here, Erik; I'm sorry it upsets you."

"You'll be sorry when you wake a soprano," I grumbled.

"Anyway, I'd rather discuss the wedding," he grinned.

"There is no wedding; you came in at the wrong time. I just mentioned to her that if she were to, ah…well, I mentioned some circumstances under which I would feel obliged to compel Prince Charming to divorce her."

"Have any of these circumstances come to pass?"

"NO. Don't trouble yourself with it any further."

'What in the world makes you think he's going to divorce her—just because you ask him nicely?" Reza was well amused by that idea.

"No again; but I think he would, given the correct incentives," I replied mildly. I indulged in a bit of fantasy…

Reza brought me back. "The incentive of a rope around his neck?"

"Possibly. I was thinking of the incentive of not having to lend his mighty name to my offspring."

Reza leapt to his feet in a rapture. Rushing over, he proceeded to squeeze the breath out of my carcass.

"What the devil is wrong with you?" I wheezed.

"A little one! What a blessing! What a joy!" he was transported.

"Will you let me go, you old fool? The way you're carrying on, I thought you were having a vision of Christ Transfigured. I just told you none of the circumstances have come to pass."

He retreated to his seat while I attemped to un-rumple myself.

"Well, it can't be long now," he guessed. "You were certainly applying yourself to the endeavor last night."

"Right, well, how do you propose I take care of domestic business when your lovely houseguests descend on us like a murder of carrion crows? HMMMM?"

"I'll tell Darius to knock before he goes into the pantry."

"How has Persia gotten by all these years without its national comedian, I wonder? Anyway, you've got it all wrong. We're not, ah, applying ourselves to anything. We just overlooked some details…the joy of the reunion swept us away a bit. What are you laughing at?" I demanded.

"You're red as a radish, Erik."

"Of course I am. Do you think I enjoy discussing these details with you? I despise having these conversations with anyone."

"Well, I think a baby and a wedding would be marvelous. I would be a doting Uncle Reza," he beamed.

"Yes. Well. I believe it would be wedding, then baby, if it's all the same to you," I huffed.

"You're such a prude. Very well, then; you'd best get off to Chagny and see to the divorce."

Christine popped her head in to say goodnight.

"Ah, excuse me, Reza." I moved to the door. "Christine, dear, may I have a word before you retire?"

"Certainly."

We slipped into the library. Her eyes were concerned as I took her hands.

"Don't worry, Angel; it's nothing bad. At least I hope not," I smiled. She relaxed visibly.

"What is it?"

"I must apologize for not having seen to this sooner, and while I recognize that, technically, it is impossible for me to pledge myself to you—"

She made a confused face.

"Because you're a married woman," I explained, impatient at the interruption.

"Oh. Yes. Sorry." She fell silent so I could continue.

"Right, so while I recognize it's not technically possible, still I want you to know that you are the wife of my heart; and I am yours, such as I am." I fished in my pocket. "With that in mind, I pray you will wear this until such time as I may do better for you."

It was just a simple band set all around with diamonds, but Christine made me feel as if I'd given her England's crown jewels.

"Happy tears," she explained, sniffling all over my waistcoat. "You put it on me."

She admired it on her finger, then looked at me with such love that I thought my heart would burst. She kissed me and whispered, "Come to bed. I want to be naked with you; naked, except for my ring."


	20. Chapter 20

As I'd expected, the fair Comte could not wait to hear what I had to say. Jules announced his arrival at midmorning.

"That boy you nearly killed has returned. He claims you want to see him this time," Jules grumbled.

"As it happens, he speaks the truth, my man. I am sorry to disappoint you. You don't like our lovely Comte de Chagny, Jules," I observed. "Why?"

"Who is he to you?" he grunted suspiciously.

I realized I was under no obligation to explain myself to my foreman, but I liked this plain-spoken bull of a man, and I believed I had his grudging affection, as well. So I answered him plainly.

"I am his wife's lover." I admit to choking and blushing at the…stark, sordid sound of it.

For his part, Jules started. Something like a smile spread over his face as he looked at me with frank admiration. He shook his head and slapped his knees as one does over an especially good joke.

As Jules went to fetch the boy, my mind wandered over my strange relationship with the Comte. I genuinely believe the boy would miss me if I were gone from his life. We're joined like Cain and Abel; his hatred for me is the most genuine emotion he'll ever feel in the endless round of debuts, tea parties, weddings, social calls, funerals, balls and holidays that will comprise his life. I give him meaning; he is not like me. I help him define himself, give him something to despise and make him feel more beautiful. He should be kinder to me.

"What is it you want?" he demanded.

"Will you sit?" I offered. He did so.

"What is it you want, Sir?"

"Christine has not agreed to discontinue her Women's Rights crusade. In fact, she has two American women coming to visit to help her stir our countrywomen up even more." Perhaps the two American Amazons would be useful after all.

His perfect brow was creased; as though he was trying to think. I continued.

"I see no way to keep your name clear of it."

"You said you had it in hand!" he accused, turning pink.

"If I took it in hand, it was because it was beneficial for me to do so. If you benefited incidental to that, it was all to the good; however, I now find it beneficial to encourage her in her pursuit of equality. You, sadly, still have your exalted name to protect."

"You've got to make her stop! How can it be beneficial to you for her to carry on like this?" he demanded.

"I'm don't think you want to know. Let's just say I like it when she…asserts her independence." I suggested, adding new colors to his complexion.

His dreamy eyes fluttered rapidly. Now he was not only trying to think, but agitated. I sat back comfortably; it looked like it would be awhile. Finally, he was compelled to ask me: "What do you suggest?"

His words were a raspberry pastille on my tongue. I savored them until I nearly swooned; still, it wouldn't do to be over-confident.

"Well…divorce, I suppose." I tried to make it sound as if I'd given it little thought, naturally. The Comte blanched at the word. I could almost feel sorry for him, but then the angry adolescent resurfaced.

"So you can have her! Never!"

"Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but I _do_ have her."

"She's still my wife!"

"I don't suppose it would occur to you that we're not arguing over a prize racehorse, would it? Christine reckons that she belongs to herself, and accordingly, bestows her favor as she sees fit," I snapped. She would've been so proud if she had heard me.

"But she's mine!" _You wouldn't think so if you'd seen her last night,_ I thought.

"Fine," I shrugged. "I don't have a name or a reputation to lose, so I really am in no position to judge. You asked me what I would suggest, and I told you. All I wanted was to give you the courtesy of letting you know."

The boy was studying his hands. Then I noticed that after all this time, he was still wearing his wedding ring, and my hatred for him evaporated in an instant. He was sitting in a room with the man he most despised in the world, fighting to retain some dignity as the last vestiges of hope deserted him. I knew that feeling, and my eyes began to burn for him. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to comfort him. Had to get him out.

"Ahem," I opened breezily, "perhaps you'll want to take some time and consider your options."

He tried to wipe his eyes discreetly. "Yes, I'll consider it. Thank you."

I escorted him to his carriage. "Remarkable, isn't it; we've managed to be civil," I noted.

"Yes! We have," he wore his confused puppy look as he drove away.

"What kind of woman leaves a sweet rich boy for a strange stone man?" Jules was finishing his lunch with a smoke in the sunshine.

"One who knows quality when she rubs up against it."

>

Christine was off to a ladies' meeting, so Gaston, Reza and I embarked on another smoker. When we told him about the American suffragettes, he was impressed. He knew their names. He said Susan Anthony had been arrested for voting about ten years ago; a genuine rabble-rouser, it sounded like.

"If she was my woman, I would put a stop to it before those two get here," he warned.

I laughed bitterly.

"I believe I may speak for him in this, Gaston; he's been trying to put a stop to it since it began. She's got the determination and ambition of any man," Reza interjected.

"She must be biddable by you, Erik, you're yet so new to each other!"

"No, Gaston, Reza is correct; I'm the love-struck one. Besides, I'm hoping to use those women to my advantage. I spoke to the beautiful Comte today, suggested he might want to obtain a divorce, since he'll find his name in the mud again with all this Woman's Rights twaddle."

"And?"

"He says he'll consider it. Enough of this, gentlemen --forget that fop!" I urged, breaking out a gorgeous aged cognac I'd happened upon.

We were well on our way to our respective snoots full when we were startled by a commotion in the front hall. Reza rushed to the door and in poured two good sized Amazons bearing my darling between them. She was clutching a handkerchief to her nose.

"Christine!" I screamed and brought her to the sofa. When she lowered the cloth, I shrieked again: her nose was bloody, her eye was blackened, and her dress was torn. "Christine, good god, what is this?"

I whirled on the women who'd helped her home. "What is this? What's happened?" Sometimes I forget myself…rather, the effect my…_self_…has on others. They were too terrified to speak to me.

"Erik."

I fell to my knees at Christine's side. "Angel, what—" I mourned her sweet face, kissed her dear hand. She winced, "Erik, my hand." Her knuckles were raw.

"Josette," she whispered.

"JOS—"

"Ssshhh," Christine cut me off. Darius handed me a cloth to see to my darling's face. "She dared to come to the meeting…I became furious when I saw her, I couldn't believe her daring to come! I demanded she leave…oh, I don't even remember everything we said, but you see she got to me before the ladies could help me. Oh, she is mad, Erik, you were right," she caressed my cheek. "My poor darling Erik; poor Erik!"

"No," I seethed, "my poor darling Christine; forgive me…I should have beat her when I had her in my hands. But she'll see now…" My boiling blood turned everything red in my sight; I was determined to run out tonight and find her, once my precious wife was settled.

"Erik," Christine soothed. "take me to bed. I want to lie down."

"Reza—"

"I'll see to the ladies, Erik," he nodded.

"Thank you," they nodded, wide eyed. Christine slipped away and kissed them both thanks.

I got my Angel into bed and slipped in beside her. She tried to appear none the worse for wear, smiling—though I knew it hurt her to do so. "Erik, promise me, will you? Please. Promise me."

"What, Christine?" I kissed her cheek timidly.

"Let it go, Erik. Promise. Don't go after her, please!"

"You want me to let this go?" I raged. "No, Christine; you know you can ask me anything, but not this. I can't let this go!"

"Promise me, Erik. You won't hurt anyone on my account! _Promise_!" She winced as emotion contorted her features.

There was nothing for it; Christine needed to rest, and I knew she'd never settle until I'd satisfied her on this point. "I won't go after her, Christine, I promise."

And I meant it.

_She'll come to me._


	21. Chapter 21

The next day, I wanted to stay home and worry over Christine, but she wouldn't hear of it. She promised to have a doctor in to look her over, and to send for me if she was anything more than bruised.

"Erik, remember your promise," she yawned.

"I do, my treasure."

I do indeed. I promised not to go after the demonic Creole. But she'll come to me, sooner or later, and I shall kill her. I secreted a trusty little Persian knife on my hip; there was plenty of rope at the worksite that I could fiddle into a lasso in my spare moments.

I wanted to spend time planning; there were so many nuances to review. Would I do her there, or would I persuade her to meet me elsewhere for a proper tryst? Beat her or not? I would not use the knife unless she was in danger of escaping. I prefer the knife to the gun because of proximity to the intended, but I am not a stabber by inclination. I yearned for the delicate pleasure of the rope, particularly with that mad bitch in my hands. When I thought of it, I felt—well. Never mind; likely you wouldn't understand, but…I was looking forward to it. First time I'd ever done a woman, and what a woman to do! I've been a good boy for much too long.

Just after lunch I felt the tremor we all dread in underground work. Before I ever heard the rumble, I shot toward it instinctively. Jules and his assistants were busily herding people in the other direction. He caught me scrambling past him and we did an interesting battle dance. I insisted I had to get to whoever was trapped; he insisted I could do nothing for them anyway. Ultimately he carted me out and dumped me unceremoniously before falling beside me. When we'd finished coughing our lungs out, I got to my feet and began dusting myself off. Ridiculous; I was going right back in, but dusty clothing is hard on a nitpicker such as myself.

Jules snatched a handful of my cravat and swore I'd wish I'd perished in the cave-in if I ever again attempted anything so foolhardy. I knew he was right, but I've always tried to help in a cave-in; I've never been afraid for my life. All those men have wives and children. Until Christine came along, there was nothing for me to live for; old habits die hard. Jules lurched off angrily to determine who was missing; I wandered back underground to see what I could of the collapsed shaft.

Thankfully, it was not the main corridor, but a relatively new side shaft that had given way. Jules and I would make a full inspection tomorrow to ensure that the rest of the site remained safe. Today, we had other chores. Jules' paw clapped me on the shoulder and spun me around.

"Will you wait for me? Damn fool!" he thundered.

"Who is missing?" I didn't want to know.

"Thierry. Big Jean and little Jean." I darted for the ruined cavern and began tearing at the rubble wildly.

"I have to tell a woman she lost her husband _and _her son today? NO!" I screamed. I darted for the ruined cavern and began tearing at the rubble wildly."Jean? JEAN! THIERRY!"

Once again Jules dragged me away.

"Let me go, man! I hear something!" I struggled against him vainly.

"You don't hear anything, Boss. Let my moles come in." Moles are the men with uncanny ability to dismantle the puzzle of a cave-in without causing more chaos. Also, they would recover the bodies if they could.

We dismissed everyone who was not working on the cave-in, telling them to return in three days, by which time we should have everything shored up and know how to proceed. Go home, enjoy your families.

Next, we located the dead men's addresses and began our rounds. I thought of offering to see to it alone, but Jules would have taken umbrage at the suggestion. These were his men, after all; I was just the gentleman in charge.

Thierry's wife was a gaunt, tired-looking woman with at least five dirty, screeching children. She appeared to have been expecting us for years. She nodded once at Jules and shut the door in our faces without a word.

Big Jean's wife invited us in. Her home was clean and simply furnished. I was glad to see she was religious; it seems to help people at such times. She offered us tea, which we declined.

"So there's been an accident; that is why you're here?"

"Yes, Madame," I replied.

After a moment, I realized she would not ask.

"I regret to say that your husband…and your son—"

"Oh no. Not little Jean, not without seeing his child born!" Jules caught the widow and guided her into a chair. I offered her my handkerchief, so as not to feel utterly useless.

She continued. "I'll just be a moment. I must accompany you to Annie; poor Annie. I've had a good life, but…now I've buried all my children." She talked about anything; it helped her. She expected the knock on the door about Big Jean, always, she said. Her eldest, a girl, had died in childbirth; her other two children died young of fevers. So little Jean was it; expecting his first child in a matter of weeks.

"Well, come along. I'm sure you gentlemen wonder why I can't tell Annie myself—but I can't!" she sighed, matter-of-factly, as if there was something trivial and silly about her grief, like not being able to remember an address. "Come, she's just down the street."

I wanted to drown myself in the Seine rather than face this girl. Jules seemed to sense this and put a steadying—perhaps restraining—hand on my shoulder.

Annie was an improbably delicate blonde; a doll. She looked so young that it seemed little Jean should have been imprisoned for having got her how she so obviously was. She looked about to burst. Her eyes were open and trusting, if a little disturbed by me. Smiling, she invited us in, but before I could begin to speak, Annie read something in her mother-in-law's eyes. She yelped and waddled from the room as quickly as she could; admittedly not very quickly.

"I wish I had another handkerchief," I mumbled impotently.

Jules tugged me toward the door. "Are you safe to get home?" The way he put it to me was more a threat than a question.

I nodded.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he growled. "Oh, and don't be so morbid when you get home. Have some wine and make love to your Comtesse."

Christine was up and about, a bit slow-moving and achy, but alright. I got hot every time I saw her beautiful face marred with bruises and abrasions. Combined with the day I'd had, I was feeling monstrous.

"Hello, love," she sang. After the kiss, she searched my dead face with a frown.

"We had a cave-in today. I had to tell three women their men were not coming home." I closed my eyes and rested my forehead on hers. She was warm and alive in my hands. I hadn't realized it so plainly until then that I really did have something to live for now. Something to live for…the realization didn't feel as I'd always imagined it would. It didn't feel soaring and joyful. It didn't feel as if I was completely human at last. It frightened me, and I didn't understand why. The confusion made me irritable. I wished I was in my cave. Christine began to loosen my cravat and I shrugged her away. "I'm going to bed."

She caught my hand. "Shall I bring you some tea?"

"No, thank you."

"Food?"

"No."

"A brandy?"

"Will you stop nagging me? If want something I'll ask for it!"

She dropped my hand, stunned by my ferocity. Instantly I wished I was dead.

"I'm sorry," I sighed, rubbing my eyes. "I need to be alone." As I headed for the stairs, Christine called to me once again.

"Erik?"

"WHAT!"

"I suppose it wouldn't help to talk?"

"No, it wouldn't help to talk."

I stripped to shirt and trousers, slid into my coffin, and shut the lid all but a crack.


	22. Chapter 22

I didn't come out all night, and Christine didn't bother me. I would doze, toss uncomfortably, wake and begin to brood. I thought about my need to be alone, and about Christine's need to talk things through. She wants to be a companion and a confidante, but when something bothers me, all I want is to be alone with my black thoughts. She probably felt rejected and excluded. By the morning, I had decided that I'm not fit to be her man; and I'd tell her so when I got home tonight. I'd tell her I was a selfish, moody, set-in-my-ways, gloomy freak, and she should go back to her normal little Comte. It didn't make me feel any better; in fact it made me feel like death on fine china. But…it was the right thing to do.

On the way back to the cave-in, I slipped an envelope with ten thousand francs under each of the Jean widows' doors, and fifteen for Thierry's wife and all her tribe. I peered into her window; mistake. Two bleating toddlers were on the floor, she had a baby at her breast, and she was trying to fix breakfast for the odd four or so that were running amok. I was so depressed I could barely find the energy to walk to work.

Jules took one look at me and held forth.

"You didn't listen, did you? You didn't get drunk last night—you didn't get laid either! What did you do? Sulk? Fret?" He cracked me on the side of the head and proceeded to shake me senseless. I was numb. "How long have you been at this work, Mask Man? How long? This is not your first cave-in. Are you turning into an old woman?"

"I never knew what it was like to lose someone before, " I whined. I've always been alone until Christine. I'm not used to this."

Jules' granite visage softened noticeably. "Come; work."

He set me to shoring up an area with rubble; it was hot, thirsty work, but by lunchtime my mood was not so dire. We ate together silently and he offered me a cigarette, which I accepted.

"Did you tell your Christine what happened?"

"Yes; then I secreted myself in my room for the night."

He nodded. "You never thought she might be suffering alone, thinking of how you nearly died that day?"

"No," I confessed. "I did think about how I want to be alone when I suffer, and about how she wanted to talk and comfort me. I thought she might be better off with Prince Charming."

"If she wanted Prince Charming, she would have him, Beauty. Us ugly men have to treat our women well, you know; we have nothing to fall back on."

He cracked me in the head again as we set back to work.

"What the devil was that for?" I demanded.

"You deserve it more than anyone I ever met."

At the end of the day, we were relieved to be able to say that we'd not found anything unsafe. We shared another cigarette and took a few pulls from my hip flask.

Jules groaned at the cognac. "You drink this all the time?"

"You don't like it?"

"Like it? It's like a beautiful woman—a mute, beautiful woman!" he roared at his own joke. "Listen, Beauty, you do what I told you tonight," he reminded me as we parted.

I was filthy and I stank, so I went straight upstairs to get clean and dressed for dinner. I collected some fresh clothes and nearly crashed into Christine in the hall.

"How was today? Any better?" After the way I treated her, all she cared about was whether or not I had a better day. I don't deserve her, I don't deserve her.

I nodded. "So far it looks as though the rest of the caverns are safe, which is good."

Christine slipped her arms around my neck, encouraging an embrace. I demurred.

"No, Christine, I smell like a goat."

To my amazement, she pressed her nose to my chest. "You smell like a man; I like it. It makes me feel amorous." She drew my filthy shirt out of my filthy trousers.

"I'm really dirty," I continued, worried for her clothes.

"I know; I want to be dirty with you," she whispered. She unbuttoned my trousers and drew back into our bedroom.

"I was planning to come home tonight and tell you I'm too moody and selfish to be your man."

"Oh really?" We were sharing a cold supper in bed between bouts. "Would you pass me the preserves, please? And you changed your mind, I hope."

"Raspberry or um…ew. Fig." I grimaced. Quite a sight, when I grimace. "Raspberry or fig?"

"Fig, please—never mind that face; I happen to like it."

"Yes, I did change my mind. I realized quickly that your plans and mine would not dovetail nicely, so I was forced to make a snap decision about which of the two plans to jettison."

"We dovetail nicely, though," she leaned over for a kiss.

"Perfectly."

"I'm happy to see you chose correctly." She popped a strawberry into my mouth. I would have preferred a nipple, truth be told.

"It was a foregone conclusion, really. You, ah, had me…as they say," I reminded her.

"Oh yes, I remember now. I did have you," she beamed. "Erik, you smell so good when you've worked hard all day! I wish you'd do more of that hard physical labor." Christine was spreading those dreadful fig preserves with such meticulous precision, it was a wonder to behold.

"I am happy to do hard physical labor for you anytime, Darling."

"Are you ready again?" she paused in her food preparations, expectant.

"Mm, nearly so—go on and eat, Angel; it'll keep," I chuckled, refilling our glasses. "Hm, that bottle's dead. I'm afraid I've got to flit downstairs and fetch more wine."

"Flit? You're going to flit? Naked?" She giggled until she wept.

I picked at a bit of beef diffidently. I abandoned it, realizing I was not hungry; but out mutual exertions always seem to engender an appetite in Christine. "Nevermind. You're drunk already."

"I am not; anyway, it's that much easier to have your way with me if I am…" she suggested.

"I haven't noticed you posing any particular challenge so far, frankly; although I do have an idea, whenever you're finished reviving yourself."

"Oh, well then, I'm finished," she replied, setting her bread aside.

"Excellent. I have an inspired idea involving these raspberry preserves. Bring your delightful crumpet over here…"

I barely had the strength to wrest myself from Christine's arms in the morning. She'd gone insatiable on me; it was glorious. She promised the world if I would abandon work and sty in bed all day. Honestly, I went to work for the rest.

"You look better today, Beauty," Jules looked me over. "Does the Comtesse have a smile on her face this morning?"

"I certainly hope so. She was nearly the death of me."

"I've never heard of a man dying of too much love, but if anyone could do it, it would be you," he chuckled. "Come along, Lover Boy."

My thought turned gloomy again as I worked. I pictured Christine heavily pregnant as little Annie was. Decent, hard-working young Jean had promised to take care of her for life; his life was done, but what now for Annie and her child? Her life had barely begun, by the look of her. Even if a cave-in doesn't get me, Christine will be left young; I have a lot of years on her. It seemed every way I turned it, Raoul was the better choice. If I could have a chat with him, encourage him to pay her more attention and indulge her whims a bit more, maybe he could make her happy again. My mind was awhirl. I couldn't make sense of it anymore. Each time I was decided, another equally compelling opposite thought assailed me.

I felt guilty brooding in sight of Jules; he was like an omniscient schoolmaster. I kept expecting another crack on the head. I quieted m mind by taking a vow to talk it over with Reza.

Gaston was there when I arrived home. I took up a brandy and a cigar and told them I felt Christine would be better off back at Chagny. I explained about the cave-in, and the widows, and all my reasoning since then. It was a very compelling, well-conceived argument.

"Erik, my friend, she doesn't want to return to Chagny," Gaston pointed out.

"Well, no, but once I explain it to her, once she understands how much better off she'll be, she'll see the sense of it."

"You're sure of that, are you?"

"Yes, of course. My Christine is a very clever girl."

"Ah. And this is what you want to do?" he asked, gently.

"Yes. Absolutely; my heart is full. If it's best for her, then…yes." I sounded almost convinced.

"Well?" Gaston demanded of Reza. "Are you going to sit there and say nothing?"

"I refuse to get excited by his daily dramas. You shouldn't engage with him, Gaston; it only fuels his addled thinking."

"This is not a daily drama," I replied imperiously. "I've mulled this over quite extensively, and I've come to a rational, relatively emotionless decision about my Angel's welfare."

"I don't see how you could have mulled it over extensively. You've barely been thinking about it long enough to get a good brood on," Reza retorted.

"I've had a good two days!" I insisted.

"Hardly—you weren't thinking about it last night," Reza replied pointedly.

"You old gossip! We were quiet as church-mice!"

"If you say so," he shrugged.

I caught Gaston's bemused expression. "It's not funny, Gaston, I've absolutely no privacy! He's got no life of his own, so he's forced to live vicariously and spy on me!" I accused.

"Spy, indeed. It sounds like there's a troupe of acrobats moved in. It boggles the mind," Reza retorted. "I can't imagine what they get up to."

Gaston smiled broadly. "It doesn't sound as if she'll be easily parted from you, Erik. She is quite the determined girl, after all. Why would you want to part with such a marvelous creature?"

"I don't," I whined.

"Well then, thank the gods for your undeserved good fortune and enjoy her!"

"I'm old. She'll be alone a long time when I'm gone. I brood too much. She needs someone more…normal."

"She knows all of these arguments. We've been through this before," Reza reminded me impatiently. "I think we all agree that Christine is not a conventionally-motivated young woman; one only has to look at her taking it upon herself to leave Chagny and risk social ruin to recognize that."

"Reza is right," Gaston agreed. "She is extraordinary. You'll have to come to terms with the fact that you simply don't know her mind. She is with you for her own reasons. I doubt she'd appreciate you debating her disposal as if she was an aged racehorse."

"Racehorse," I remembered.

"What's that?" Reza asked.

"Oh…nothing. I told Chagny once that she was not his prize racehorse."

"Well then, you see, you have your answer," Reza replied.

Gaston raised his glass. "To the lady, then."

"And her miserable, most undeserving suitor," Reza added.

"And to dear, true friends," I added.


	23. Chapter 23

I couldn't relax to save myself the first day the men returned to work. I kept wandering around…hovering, I suppose would be the best word for it. At lunchtime, Jules told me to stay away or he'd thump me.

The day turned beautiful mid-afternoon, when the Creole came to call. The instant I saw her, twin flames of rage and lust ignited and blazed fiercely. I sprung upon her and grabbed a handful of her hair, wrenching her head back.

"What do you mean, attacking her?" I growled.

Her eyes glowed with madness. Her tongue flicked out, snakelike, as she reached down to learn of her effect on me. She was well pleased with what she found. As she pulled at me, I tore her skirts up angrily. She was without undergarments as I knew she'd be. I shoved two fingers inside her. She moaned hungrily. I seemed unable to hurt her, no matter how roughly I used her.

_But I'll hurt you soon enough_, I thought with wicked glee.

"Enough," I spat, tearing away from her. "I can't do this here, now."

The bitch struggled for self control. She raised my fingers to my mouth and bid me taste her.

"Finish me," she urged breathlessly.

"No. Meet me later."

She nodded. "Where?"

"Here, just…half-seven." She nodded and made to approach me again.

"NO." I stopped her. "Later. I'll give you everything you could possibly want," I promised. "Just…later."

This seemed to satisfy her, and she slipped away. Once she was safely gone, I traveled into the caverns in search of some rope, then home for a quick supper. Naturally Christine was saddened when I announced I had to return to work.

"I'm sorry, I must return for awhile this evening, Darling. Just a bit of cleaning up."

"Oh."

"There, don't give me that pretty little pout. You know I'll never leave you if you do. Kiss?" She gave me a disappointed little kiss. "I promise I'll make it up to you when I return...and I won't be late."

"Alright. Erik, wait…I don't want to part with you today. Can't you do it tomorrow?"

"No. I must go tonight, Christine. Please, be a good girl." I kissed her forehead and went off to protect her.

I secreted my little Persian fail safe on my calf, made myself comfortable, rolled up my shirtsleeves and had a brandy.

My mad would-be-mistress was prompt. I heard her footfalls before I saw her. I threw my voice.

"Welcome, Josette." She gasped slightly when she heard me, seemingly behind her. I went to meet her and extended my hand. "Come along, my sweet Creole." I felt supremely confident, unstoppable, and it must have shown in my eyes, for the madwoman was captivated.

I took her hand and tossed her in a playfully rough way into the room; she fell against the table. I pinned her there and loosened her hair.

"What do you want of me? Tell me," I whispered. Already, her breath came harder. Another day it might have been nice to examine the extraordinary phenomenon of a woman being driven to rapture by a gargoyle she clearly had no feeling for. She didn't know me, nor did she care to…

"Is it this you want?" I thrust my hips against her. She nodded as best as she was able with me squeezing her throat. "Alright, but not yet…" I drew her to her feet.

In the Orient, you can observe a bird hypnotized and subsequently killed by a snake. The hapless creature forgets itself capable of flight as it stares into dead reptile eyes. Thus the Creole.

I tore her dress from her shoulders. She gasped as if I had bestowed an intimate caress. I handled her tender flesh more harshly than I intended; no, I had to handle her harshly. I wanted to hurt her; to frighten her and persuade her that no matter how mad she was, I was madder still. But no matter how I pinched, bit, even; she loved it. God, she infuriated me!

"Damn you!" I threw her back onto the table and rent her dress the whole of the way down, and off. She welcomed my violent attentions with heated laughter. She reached for me, but I slapped her hands away.

"No!" I caught her hands back and secured her around the wrists and ankles with a hank of rope I'd reserved for the purpose.

"You look a pretty package, all trussed up thus," I whispered. I moved over her torso, blowing a chill across breasts, bony ribs and jutting hips. She held her breath and waited…

"What is it, then?" I sang, crouching between her knees. "What will you have here? A breeze?" I blew gently; she gasped and writhed. "A kiss?" She whimpered in anticipation but it was not a kiss I bestowed. I bit her; yes, I did, and she asked for more.

"Ghost, Ghost!" she panted. Humming, I trailed bites over her most tender flesh: breasts, belly, thighs. Not too sharp at first; sharper until she tried to squirm from me, but I climbed on top of her and nibbled more gently again. I permitted her to ride my thigh until she began to tremble; and I leapt away abruptly.

"You wanted a kiss, I remember now." So I moved again down her bony body, kissing as much as the mask allowed, and as much as I could stand. I couldn't bring myself to…I could shove my fingers in her hateful cunt, I could sink my teeth into it, but I couldn't kiss it. Again she shuddered and writhed, moaning and pleading.

"Is that all, Ghost? No more? You use me like a little girl!" She laughed her mocking bitch's laugh at me.

"SHUT UP!" I slapped her—hard.

She gasped and sucked at her lip. She stuck out her tongue to show me the blood I'd started. Her breast heaved with desire. "More…"

"Yes," I murmured. "You shall have more." I renewed my digital assault. I let her call the rhythm with her hips until she was whimpering and tossing her head with abandon. Again I walked away, leaving her drenched in sweat.

"Please!" The bitch trembled uncontrollably. She looked as if she was in pain; I wondered if it was like that for women, if they could need release that badly. I crept close to her ear, grabbed a handful of hair and twisted her neck til she winced.

"What did you say?" I bit her ear and she shrieked. I was gratified; it was a genuine shriek at last.

"Please…" she squirmed as I commenced to tease her again.

"You want it, then?" She nodded in desperation and tried to capture my hand between her thighs. "If you want it, you have to ask nicely, else I'll doubt your sincerity, Dark One."

"I want it, you know I want it!" she cried.

"Very well then," I agreed, slipping the rope around her neck. As I cinched it tight, I growled, "What do you say to this, you hateful bitch?"

She moaned. "Yes, do it!"

"Shall I rub this bud? Shall I slip these fingers in here? Shall I use you this way? How does this feel? What about this? Shall I pinch this bud? Shall I bite it clean off? I could, you know."

She cried out, hips bucking wildly, muscles clenching. I drew the noose tighter still. Her eyes flew wide in terror as she realized that she could no longer draw breath. I climbed on top of her again and thumped her head on the table as I choked the life out of her.

"OH! I nearly forgot! One more thing!" I snatched my mask off and relished the silent scream in her eyes. I covered her mouth with mine and sucked the last breath from her cursed lungs. How I struggled for composure; I nearly spent myself as I felt her death throes subside.

When she was gone, I laughed hysterically. I made up a delightfully ribald ditty about how _'she came and went'_ as I laid a few explosives inside the office. I collected my things, lit the fuse and hurried home to my precious wife.


	24. Chapter 24

Christine was chatting with Reza when I returned. I managed to contain myself sufficiently to exchange pleasantries and sip a cognac; fortunately my Angel understood the message in my eyes and we excused ourselves relatively quickly.

I seized upon her with bestial urgency; this she tolerated with better humor than it merited. I ripped her bodice in my frenzy to reach her flesh.

"Erik! You're ruining my dress!" Her womanly laughter caught me out of sorts. I tore my trousers open and forced her to accept her creation.

"It's no laughing matter, Christine! See what you do to me; yes, take it, touch it!" I fell on her, pinning her to the bed and driving her breath from her lungs. She gasped and pulled at me, allowing herself to be swept up in the tide of my arousal.

I ripped her skirts away, and held her wide. "It's yours, Christine, and useless--unless it pleasures you. Tell me it pleasures you. _Tell me!_" I demanded, plunging deeply into her burning, honeyed cavern. She cried out and enfolded me utterly.

"You know how you pleasure me," she moaned. "Quiet now, and take me," she urged, raising her hips to meet me. She matched my thrusts and we sang a wordless duet. Her voice drove my passion higher than I had imagined possible. Still, I managed to wait on her fulfillment, though I don't know how.

"Christine, I'm dying; sing for me. Sing," I panted. Her moans made music no man could ever write. Her strength increased as her release approached; I was scarcely able to move as she pulled me still closer.

"Will you swallow me up?" I worried, trembling.

"Yes, and keep you inside me forever," she promised. Crying out, she arched her back and squeezed me sharply with her potent release. "Erik, come; _now!_"

She commands me in all things, and so took my soul inside her. I felt it surge out of me with my seed; and I prayed—yes, I prayed--that she would keep it better than I had. I melted wordlessly and she cradled me as my poor mother never found the heart to do.

Ultimately, I was chilled from my reverie. Christine stroked my back patiently, waiting for me to remove my bulk.

"I'm sorry, Darling. Most unchivalrous of me," I murmured, drawing the covers up over us.

"I don't mind," she sighed, snuggling. "You were unstoppable."

"Yes; I'm sorry," I replied, embarrassed.

"Oh, no; it was heavenly," she confessed. "I like to think that you want me so much that you can't contain yourself. It makes me feel like a temptress."

"But you are a temptress, Christine; you are my only temptress."

Her eyes told me she believed, but... "I don't think of myself that way; I feel rather conventional to be a temptress. I'm not exotic, or—"

"You are anything but conventional, my love. Even if you weren't the most beautiful girl in the world, your inner workings make you the most fascinating and complicated of god's creations. As for exotic…well, suffice it to say that harem girls are overrated, in my experience."

She blushed. "I think you're prejudiced in my favor."

"Are you saying I'm insincere?" I feigned umbrage.

"No, not at all. I just think perhaps you're not objective."

"Hm. You may be right. I am rather…close…though not as close as I'd like to be." My lips found their favorite spot on her neck; she squirmed appreciatively as I sucked.

"More?" she asked, surprised.

"More," I confirmed. We rolled together fluidly as she accommodated me between her thighs once more.

Something is wrong with my mind. I mean, a thought—not even a thought, I don't know what to call it...Suddenly I was overwhelmed with a leaden grief and I crumpled against her.

"How can you look at me? How can you look at me?" I wailed.

"Erik!" she cried, alarmed. "What is it? What's wrong, my Angel?" She clutched my ghastly head ever closer.

"I'm no angel, Christine; don't call me 'angel'," I moaned. "I love you, Christine, believe me! Oh, god, how I love you!"

I felt concern for me in her touch. She should be worried; who knows when my wits will desert me irrevocably?

"I know you love me, Erik; I believe you," she soothed, confused. "Here, rest…kiss me, Erik, and rest." She rocked me to sleep against her innocent breast.

"Erik…" My angel caressed me awake. "Erik…you're late this morning…"

I grumbled and reached for her. "Nooo." I burrowed under the covers for my treasure, but she clamped her knees together and shrunk from me.

"What are you doing? Erik!" she squealed, amused and horrified.

"Breakfast," I murmured. We tussled agreeably.

"Don't!" she insisted, "I'm a mess—no!"

"Ssshhh, it's a mess we made," I reminded her. I flicked her bud to life. "Remember?"

"I remember," she sighed, surrendering easily. I slipped a finger inside, tickling her desire awake. My tongue explored her dewy folds.

"Erik, Erik." She pushed at my shoulders, urging me away. "Erik! The door."

"What!"

"Someone—Darius? Someone's at the door," she whispered.

"Jesus CHRIST!" I spat. I pulled on my dressing gown, slipped my mask on and snatched the door open. "Darius. _What?_"

"Your foreman, Sir. He is calling for you." Ah. Yes, the cave-in. I'd quite forgotten, ha-ha.

"I'll be down directly."

I turned mournfully to Christine. "Jules is here, my Love. You see? Not even for one morning may Christine and Erik have peace..."

"I told you you were late!" she giggled. I crawled back onto the bed for a final kiss. "Hurry back to me, my stallion," she whispered, smoke in her eyes.

Ouch. I had all to do simply wrestling my unruly friend into my trousers. I shrugged into my shirt and rushed down to Jules.

"Another cave-in." he declared simply.

"What, this morning!" I cried.

"No; during the night. No one was there." I sighed and clapped his shoulder. "But…it was your office. Everything inside, all your records, the plans—"

I waved him off. "No matter, no matter, if no one was there."

"You don't want to get in, then?"

I shook my head. "Not worth the expense or the delay. Let's make another inspection. If all is well, there's no problem. I'll work again on the plans and we'll re-collect the information from the men. Come, we've lost enough time already. I thank god it was at night, Jules."

He nodded. He seemed to be in agreement with not bothering to re-open the room. "I sent the men home directly."

"Right, let's have a look then."


	25. Chapter 25

"…an extraordinary bit of luck that no one was there—"

"But Erik, you were there!" Christine clasped my face in her hands, kissing me repeatedly. "Only a few hours before! You must promise me you'll never go there again when no one else is there. I would never have known." She trembled deliciously in my arms.

"Remember your Shakespeare, Christine: 'All's well that ends well.' Anyway, if you're so glad I'm alive, prove it." We eased down on the sofa and went for each other's buttons. My tongue teased her nipple; I slipped my hand under her skirt to stroke her silken thigh. She reached for her toy.

"Erik, can we do this here, do you think?" she whispered. "It would be fun."

"You're quite the naughty angel lately, aren't you?" I mused.

"I'm not; I just love you. I feel as if I'll never get enough of you; the more I have of you, the more I want. It does sound wicked…" she realized.

"Oh mercy—I beg your pardon!" Not my voice…not—someone screamed, it may have been me. Much scrambling and fumbling ensued. I attempted to leap to my feet, dumping Christine on the floor. She yowled, as did I.

"Ow, Christine! Let go!" I helped her from the floor and we finished buttoning up. "Are you alright?"

She nodded. "Are you?"

"Yes…it's not a handle, is all."

"I know! I was falling!"

"I know, I'm sorry. Christine, we really need to move house," I groaned.

"We can't leave Reza alone, Erik," she cried.

"Sweet suffering Christ, Christine! What makes you think I give a damn about leaving him!"

"Oh, stop it! You don't want to leave him either, you know you don't!"

"At this moment, I'd leave him in a heartbeat!"

"Hush…" she padded over to the door to admit the Persian fiend. We all sat around making embarrassed conversation for a few minutes, until Christine had the temerity to desert me. I glared at her fiercely, but she ignored me blithely and sashayed off for a bath.

I felt Reza's smirk before I actually saw it.

"For God's sake, say it and have done with it!" I spat.

"Nothing, nothing; I've instructed Darius to keep a bucket of cold water close at hand whenever you're at home."

"I'm going to bed."

Reza chuckled. "Sleep well, my friend, if you try it."

Two days later, Christine met me at the door when I arrived home and dragged me upstairs. I would have been happier if the look on her face even hinted at bliss, but it did not.

"Christine, what is it, Darling?" I opened mildly.

"We had a meeting today." She was fretful; wringing her hands.

"Yes…and?"

"And they say that Josette's gone missing," she sighed, biting her lip. She turned from me and looked out the window, fretting.

"Erik, you—"

"Christine, you expressly told me not to go after her." I turned her to face me. "I did not go after her."

She flung herself into my arms. "Oh, my Darling, if you knew how sick with worry I've been—and for nothing! Erik! I'm so sorry for doubting you." She looked up at me with angelic adoration.

"I love you more than life, Christine. I would do anything to keep you from being hurt," I confessed. All true; every word.

"I know you would. Oh. Erik, I love you!"

I turned to lead her down to dinner.

"Erik, wait. One more thing, I thought you would like to know, my flowers came today."

"Flowers…" What?

"You know…flowers. No baby."

"Oh. OH! Wonderful news, Darling, thank you!"

'Flowers'. That was a new one on me.

The American Amazons descended upon us the day after Christine advised me that we'd dodged the lightning bolt of incipient parenthood, so even their arrival could not dampen my spirits, at least not immediately.

Mrs Stanton was a dear old granny; it seemed she would tuck me in bed with a hot toddy if I were sick. I adored her from the instant I met her, and could not believe she was dear friends with that other woman. I wished she was my mother.

Anthony was a dragon. It was hatred at first sight, I do believe. She reminded me of Chagny's front-door cow; she gave the impression that she was smelling something nasty when she looked at me. Not that it was personal; I think she just hates anyone who happens to be male. She is precisely my worst nightmare about Christine getting involved with these suffragette types. If I were raised in the Church, I would be convinced that I was meriting indulgences just by sitting across the dinner table from the beast. She eyeballed my wineglass throughout dinner and looked as though she was sucking on lemons. No doubt she imagines I'm a drunken wife-beater. I had to struggle to be on my best behavior; I so wanted to act out and irritate her.

I was quiet throughout dinner. The dragon set the tone early on by irritating me, so I was content to let Reza and Christine be the charming ones. Christine was describing how she came to be involved with what the ladies refer to as 'Our Cause', and attempted to draw me into the conversation by saying something like 'Oh, Erik's been so supportive of me!' I don't see what was wrong with that, frankly; but Suzy B said:

"Surely you don't feel you need his permission, my dear? He isn't your keeper, after all."

"No, but…" Christine placed a sweet hand on mine. The dragon took note; I saw her squint ever-so-subtly. I suspect she thought Christine was appeasing me somehow.

"Does he expect your support when he goes off and does something he wishes to do?"

Dear Mrs Stanton poured a bit of oil on the waters.

"Miss Anthony means nothing personal by it, Mr Leroux." (I had acquired a last name when I understood that Suzy B would not be informal with me.) "She is simply always thinking of our cause, you see. She never switches off," she smiled.

"Of course," I replied, biting my tongue until it bled.

"The personal is the political," pronounced Suzy B.

Riiight.

After dinner, the ladies flounced off to a Big Meeting. Reza and I decided there was nothing for it but to get a snootful and laugh at them.

"Egads, Erik, I hate to admit it, but you were half right. Miss Anthony—"

"She's a bloody dragon, Reza; a dragon. I don't know what you're going to do to keep your bits safe; as least I've got Christine with me for protection. Maybe you and Darius should sleep in shifts, keeping watch."

"Mrs Stanton is a dear lady, though," he added.

"Oh, absolutely. I wish she'd come alone. Here, why don't you marry her, daroga? She's a widow…"

"And you're a madman! What the devil gave you the idea I wanted to be married?" Reza cried.

"Oh…I had no idea you were a confirmed bachelor. I thought you were just…waiting for the right woman to come along."

"I assure you, Mrs Stanton is not her!"

"Reza, I daresay, you're positively ruffled. I've never seen you this way before. It's delightful when the shoe is on the other foot!"

When I came down for breakfast, Suzy B was already there. Ack!

"Good Morning, Miss Anthony."

"Good Morning, Mr Leroux."

"I hope you slept well." I think I was being a very good boy.

"I did, thank you."

We sipped coffee in silence for a few minutes.

"So what do you really think of all this, Mr Leroux?" the dragon asked.

"All this Women's Suffrage, you mean?"

"Yes."

"I want Christine to be happy; whatever it takes," I shrugged.

"That is very progressive of you."

"Not particularly; I have been alone a long time. I have no wish to be alone again."

"So you tolerate it," she smirked.

"No, Madame: I embrace it. It irritates her husband, you see."

I actually got a grudging smile out of old dragon.

As soon as I was able, I exacted a heavy compensation from Christine for my forbearance, which she paid happily. We were fairly agreeably bunked on the floor in my room. I offered Christine the coffin repeatedly; it's more comfortable than the floor, to be sure, but she preferred to stay with me. Not that we didn't avail ourselves of the plush interior for a bit of recreation, but it wasn't really comfortable for a night's sleep.

"Christine. I was thinking; do you reckon they make double coffins?"

"I was just thinking the same thing!"

"You see? It's begun already; we're thinking alike. Soon we'll begin to look alike," I said sinisterly, nuzzling her neck.

"Oh, really?" she humored me.

"Yes, my Dear, and once you look like me, my plan will be complete, and I'll send you back to Chagny. Mwahahaha!"

"ACK! Erik! You idiot!"

Much tickling, giggling, and squealing ensued. I can just imagine what our lemon-faced houseguest thought of that.


	26. Chapter 26

When I awoke, the morning was half gone. No matter; work was out of the question. I had a headache which extended to my knees, and my pride was only slightly less painful. I remembered…enough to guess that I was in the soup, but I chose to concentrate on the earlier wrong which had not yet been addressed: Christine's Public Spectacle. Suitably buoyed with righteous indignation, I tottered off in search of coffee and my recalcitrant mistress.

She was ensconced with Those Women in the parlor, so I was forced to endure Reza's obscenely grinning company.

"You were devastatingly suave last night, Erik; everyone in the house agrees. We all heard, naturally."

"If I were a well man you would be in grave peril. As it is, I am cataloging every comment in my vengeful, reptilian brain. I shall play it all back to you in excruciating detail as I torture you to your agonizing, slooooow death. Have you instructed those diabolical harridans to leave?"

"No…"

"GOD—ooh—goddammit, Reza. When France falls, it will be on your Persian head. Have a care for the nation which has sheltered you in exile all these years. You see to the Americans, and I will undertake to remove the pollution from Christine's brain. Darius, god bless you, my man; fresh coffee, god bless you."

"How do you propose to do that, Erik? Remove the pollution, that is?"

"Daroga. Why are you looking so amused? Is it possible that you don't recognize the gravity of this situation? I, too, thought it was all fun and games until the debacle yesterday brought me to my realization. Do _you _wish to live out your days under feminine tyranny, because I most certainly do _not_."

"Before you set off on a rant--the pollution?" he reminded me.

"Oh. Yes. Well, it happens, much as I hate to admit it, that you may have been correct about something you said earlier."

"Why, thank you, Erik; it takes a big phantom to admit such a thing."

"Yes. I know. Remember you said she'd sort herself out once she was occupied with proper women's pursuits?"

"I believe so," he recalled.

"Well. It happened to come up the other day, about the, ah, baby question, and while she claims to be against the idea in principle, she responded most positively to the actual, ah, suggestion, if you will. I think it may be worth it to put up with the noise and disruption of an infant to get Christine back in tow, what with her being the ring-leader of these female hooligans."

"Christine…back in tow? Forgive me, Erik; but did I know you when she was in tow?"

"Ha. Ha. Anyway, dispose of those women and I'll…see to it."

"Yes, I'm sure you will," he smiled.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, man!" I sputtered, indignant. "I'm doing this for all of us! After all, there is _some_ sacrifice involved on my part. The little thing will likely be something of an inconvenience."

"You are indeed a very great man, undertaking such work for the sake of brotherhood," the Persian wit intoned.

"Observe my face, such as it is: this is Erik, ignoring Reza," I retorted. "May the Women's Rights harpies shred your flesh from your bones."

"Erik, when you say 'little thing' and 'inconvenience', do you mean the, ah, child?"

"Of course; what else?"

"You don't know anything about children." He stated this flatly, as if it were the most monumental of revelations. What an extraordinary thing to say.

"What is there to know, for heaven's sake? Christine knows about them," I waved my hand dismissively. "She's had too much time on her hands; I see it now. It's been my mistake; I admit it freely. The opera burned, and I didn't realize that she'd need something to occupy her mind. She is an extremely clever girl, after all; and left to her own devices, it's only natural she'd get into trouble with no guidance or oversight. I'll get her a child, and she'll turn her attention to it until the opera can be rebuilt; then we'll start rehearsing again."

"I see. And what will you do with the child then?"

"They go to school, Reza; for…what? Fifteen years or so? Then it gets a job and we're done with it." I sighed, exasperated.

"Oh. Quite right, silly me." He had the most ridiculous grin on his face. I reckon he was looking forward to being Uncle Reza.

"Right. So, you'll see to those women, then?"

"No, Erik, wait. Please sit down again. I can't let you leave here believing you have a viable plan; I wish I could, because I know it would be fascinating to watch, but I can't be so cruel. Erik, infants grow into babies, and into toddlers, and then children. They are an incalculable disruption. Do you realize they expect affection, undivided attention, entertainment—not just food and a place to sleep? They're nearly as demanding as you, only messier and noisier, usually. Erik, you have no idea what you're proposing; I can't let you go into it blindly."

"Honestly, daroga, who's being the granny now? Christine is going to take care of it; that's the whole point, to keep her busy!" I reminded him.

"And what will you do when she's busy with the child and you feel it's time _you_ had some of her attention?"

"Well--they sleep; I can wait til it sleeps. She'll put it to bed after dinner, won't she?"

"Oh dear. Yes, they sleep, but they wake up and look for food at odd hours all night long when they're new. Christine will have to be completely devoted to the child when it's young, you see. Then as they get older, they fall prey to childhood illnesses, and nightmares, and--"

"See here, why are you raising all these piddling objections? I thought you liked the baby idea!"

"I do, Erik. I think children are delightful, so long as they're someone else's—but you are the least paternal figure I can imagine."

I took immediate umbrage at that. My chest puffed up to rival a peacock's.

"_I_ will be a _magnificent_ father." I insisted. "I excel at _everything_ I set my hand to."

"I'm not sure how much your hand will have to do with this exercise, but that is another story," Reza cracked. "As to your being a good father, I agree with you—once you realize that you are no longer the center of the universe. But it will go hard with you, and everyone around you, until you learn that lesson, and who knows how long it will take?"

I would not be dissuaded from my purpose, but first I had to weasel my way back into Christine's arms. I had decided the best defense would be a good offense, so I awaited my chance that evening.

As she had predicted, Christine's meeting broke up at a much more reasonable time now that their civil disturbance had been staged. She was upstairs, preparing to give battle again, by nine-fifteen.

"Ah, you're sober. How refreshing," she opened frostily.

Apparently Christine had decided to go with the offensive strategy as well. I paused to re-evaluate my options. If I continued with my original plan, the entire night would be a disaster, and likely we'd end up in a siege lasting days; a week even. Early though it was, Christine seemed to be feeling prickly enough that I could not hope for much tonight. If I made a tactical withdrawal, however, perhaps I could salvage things for tomorrow night. I decided to revert to Sincere and Wounded Lover mode; it is usually successful if skillfully played. There is a bit of pride to be swallowed, but under the circumstances I was willing to risk it.

"Christine, before you say anything, I want you to know that I don't want to argue with you anymore." I sighed and searched her eyes hesitantly. I squeezed a tear from the corner of my eye, and she melted.

Some might say it was a cheap trick, but I disagree. It wasn't a lie; I did not want to argue anymore. Anyway, ultimately, we both got what we wanted.


	27. Chapter 27

For the second day in a row, I was unconcerned about work. I was planning to go…eventually.

"Erik, I must see to my guests," Christine protested unconvincingly.

"Wait, I missed a spot."

"What?"

"I've located a spot I don't remember kissing; this must be remedied immediately." Once I'd seen to the neglected spot, I continued on my travels.

"Wait, you've kissed there before. I remember."

"You mean to say I should stop?"

"Yes; but not yet," she smiled.

When I got home, there were no buffaloes in the parlor, and Christine and Those Women joined us for dinner. It felt as though things would return to some semblance of normalcy. Gaston stopped by and regaled Reza and me with astounding tales of an Austrian doctor named Freud. The more I learn of the world, the less stomach I have for people calling _me_ mad.

I headed upstairs fairly early, and was delighted to find Christine getting ready for bed. I took her hairbrush; I love to brush her hair.

"This is a pleasant surprise," I purred. I went for her neck, but collided with her hands, preparing to tie her hair up.

"Leave it down?" I suggested. She gave an odd little sigh which I noted; it was not until later that I realized its import. Neither did I notice that she was a bit quiet. I suspect I was focused on my agenda, but normally I am not so incautious. No, it took me until proceedings were somewhat underway, and I was not making the progress I had hoped for, that I realized that Christine was not particularly interested.

"Christine, is there any chance of your participation here?" I did not mean it to sound so snippy. Really.

"I'm sorry," she replied, somewhat unconvincingly. A bit more one-sided fumbling convinced me that it was definitely not on. When I ceased my efforts, she gave what can only be described as a sigh of relief; definitely not a fillip to my masculine pride.

I was certainly disappointed, but not worried that the honeymoon was over. I attributed it to the mysterious waxing and waning of feminine mood. I gave her a married-twenty-years type of kiss and settled down, convincing myself that a full night's sleep would do me good.

"Sleep well, Angel."

"Good night, Erik; sleep well."

I believe I actually dozed off.

"Erik?"

I jumped. "Hm? Christine? What is it?"

"I love you." She insinuated herself into my arms as if she'd awakened from a nightmare.

"Mmm, and I love you, Angel." I kissed her forehead and was just settling when she flipped away from me and onto her back.

"Christine—"

"Erik, a gentleman came to call today."

Uh-huh; here we go.

"Josette's brother. She's still not been found, Erik," she fretted. We passed a long moment; she turned her head and gazed at me expectantly.

"Christine, what is it you want from me?"

"He says he is certain she disappeared the night that..." she reached for me, changed her mind, wrung her hands. "The night you went back to work, remember? You said you had a few things to finish up."

I didn't have to feign anger. I was infuriated that she should question me as if I was a common thug.

"Alright, Christine. I killed her. Are you satisfied?"

"ERIK!" she shrieked, covering her ears.

"She came to see me. She wanted me to take her right there at work. I told her no; we arranged to meet later. When she came, I tormented her sexually and strangled her."

Christine burst into huge gasping sobs. "Stop! What's _wrong_ with you? How can you make up such ghoulish things?" She leapt up to run off, but I grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

"_How can you doubt me?_" I hissed. "Everything I do is for you! I don't draw a _breath _without considering how it affects you!"

"Stop it! You're frightening me!" Her eyes were wild. How can she be afraid of me?

"Christine! When have I ever done anything to hurt you? _When?_"

"I don't know you when you're like this," she cried softly. "You're not my Erik."

I got up and threw my clothes on as Christine sat holding herself, rocking and crying. I turned to look at her one more time. Instead of breaking my heart, the grief on her face only made me angrier.

"And _you're_ not my Christine. You're an ungrateful little brat!" The entire house shook when I slammed the door behind me.

I went under the ruined opera house and reclaimed my home from the rats. It was musty, disgusting; but it was fine for somewhere to sleep until I could get above and purchase some new things. Amazing what the slightest bit of human habitation will do to a place.

I was determined I was not going back; no. I intended to stoke the boilers of my fury as long as I could. Better to be enraged than to miss her. She would have to come to me, _and beg, and apologize_ for ever doubting me. Any other woman would be over the moon to learn that she inspired such slavish devotion in a man as Christine inspires in me. I've never balked or hesitated; never given a thought for my immortal soul—not that I would. I don't expect gratitude; I don't keep a tally of all I've done for her; it was done for love. But she wants to apply her trite, conventional Catholic morality to it!

Fine; so I murdered that perverse madwoman. I also murdered Buquet, and I would have done Carlotta had she continued to stand in Christine's way; so what? He was a drunkard and a lecher; she, a noisemaker and general nuisance.

I have done a few murders in my day; well before Christine came along, and I find that people make too much of it. When you live on the fringe of humanity as I do, you gain the advantage of a unique perspective on this question of human life. People in the thick of daily life lack objectivity about it, but the fact is that most of my fellow humans barely merit the term. Who says animals are inferior? For example, the rats in my home coexist happily; they don't abuse or hate or kill willy-nilly. They don't mistreat some poor rat unfortunate enough to be born with a short tail or a misshapen ear; no. He smells like a rat, acts like a rat, and they accept him. They eat, sleep, make little rats, eventually die; all very peaceful. Oh, there is the odd argument over a particularly alluring girl rat, but they don't find it necessary to kill each other over her. They are all good, decent rats; you cannot say 'See that skinny brown fellow over there: that is a selfish, hateful, ungenerous, substandard rat.'

Humans cannot get along so well. Most don't deserve their lives anyway. If they're snuffed out it's a blessing, a boon to the rest of us; whether people are honest enough to admit it or not. _I have killed no one who deserved to live._

My Persian friend found his way down to me after several days. I was still in a bit of a snit.

"Look at you, sitting cross-legged on the floor gnawing on chicken bones like a savage."

"How is Christine?" I passed him my bottle.

"Erik, I love you, but not your backwash; thanks," he declined candidly.

"Go on then, Daroga, you know where the cellar is. There's still plenty in there; help yourself."

He returned quickly with a Merlot.

"She is distressed, as you might expect."

"Hunh." I tossed the bones away for my rodent friends and wiped greasy fingers on my trousers. I always go through this slovenly phase when Christine and I are on the outs.

"Don't grunt at me, you heathen. When are you coming home?"

"I am home, you stupid old man. Look around you. Cave: troll. See?"

"And what about the lady?" he reminded me mildly.

"Take her."

"Would that it was so simple," he chuckled.

"I'm through with her. She throws my devotion back in my face; how can she question my motives? She utterly fails to appreciate me—I'm not saying I'm a saint, but I'm damn good to her, Reza!"

"I agree."

"If she wants to see me again, I expect an apology. I let her go with her little prince; I didn't go chasing after her! No: she came after me. 'Oh, I'm sorry I kicked your guts in four months ago, Erik; now I'm back and I want to play house. I'll move in with you and your friend, and I'll start stirring up trouble with the women of Paris, and I'll want to be on top when we do it; and I expect you to be accepting of all this. But, Erik dear, I still want to be able to dictate when it's alright for you to be different, and when I want you to be just like everyone else!' She told me I frighten her! ME! _Frighten her_—do you have any idea how that wounded me?"

I sighed. "Ah, Daroga, you don't need to be in the middle of this. Let's discuss something else."

"I'm already in the middle of it; I care for you both." Finally, he added, "Christine told me what this is about."

"Oh, and she sent you to get at the truth, did she?" I retorted.

"You know me better than that, even if Christine does not." His gaze was steady and dispassionate. He knew.

"Do you really not intend to come back?"

"Not if she can't appreciate me and accept me as I am!"

"She is having a difficult time of it right now, Erik."

"So am I; I don't want to hear about it. She'll go on, you know; she'll get over this and have a new lover the minute she decides she wants one. For me, there is no one else," I reminded him.

"I know how you feel about her. But I don't believe she considers you so easily replaceable, either."

"Well, she knows where I am."

"I'll tell her."

"I'll steal in one night and collect some clothes—"

"No," Reza interrupted. "Don't start talking to me about disposing of your things. I'm still holding out hope that you two arrive at a solution. I don't suppose you're interested in sending a conciliatory message back with me?"

"No."

"No meeting halfway, hm?"

"I don't see her coming halfway; do you?" I grumbled.

"Someone has to be first, Erik."

"What do you want from me, Daroga?"

"Nothing…shall I tell her you love her, at least?"

"She knows that."

"I could pick up some flowers—"

"Stop it, and get out."


	28. Chapter 28

I stayed down there until winter. Reza came every week and we conspicuously avoided discussing Christine. I missed her with a physical pain over and above the usual psychic anguish I endured when we were apart. The ache centered in my chest and gut; it felt like a hole. Some nights I wanted her so, I couldn't sleep; but I refused to consider buying a woman. I would never have believed I could be more miserable than I was when she left me for her perfect boy, but I was.

"Erik, I know we have an unspoken agreement, but I must bring up Christine. Now that the Christmas season is upon us, she is turning very weepy again. If—"

"Why?" I snapped. "That makes no sense."

"I know that, my friend; who knows what sets them off? Gaston insists that they get like this about Christmas, and birthdays. He sends his regards, by the way."

"You should bring him along. I miss the fat little so-and-so."

He nodded. "Now, about Christmas. If you would come for Christmas Eve dinner, and sing some carols with her…she wants to trim a tree; perhaps go to Mass—"

"_Forget it._"

"Alright, alright; perhaps that was a bit much. But if you would come, Erik, I know that it would make her Christmas. At least think on it. You don't want to sit down here alone when—"

"Reza, Christmas means nothing to me! Do you suppose my loving mother thrilled me with tales of Papa Noel when I had no chance of ever being a good boy? You're not even Christian, man; what the devil is wrong with you?" I spat.

"If you could see her, Erik. She looks like a pitiful little ghost, trying to festoon the house with greens and bows. If you won't come for her sake, will you come for mine? It breaks my heart to see her," he mourned.

"Well then, you should apply yourself to convincing her of the error of her ways. All she has to do is apologize, and I'll be right home. Erik has swallowed more than his share of pride where that little morsel is concerned."

"You're really going to spite yourself on this; you're that determined not to give in," he said with amazement.

"How many times should I let her break my heart, Daroga; tell me, because I don't know. This living heart, which I would cut out for her if she asked me to—you _know_ there's nothing I wouldn't do for her! And yet, she cannot have the least bit of faith in me. I don't want to discuss this anymore."

"Will you consider it, at least?" he asked, dejected.

"Yes," I laughed bitterly. "I will give it all the consideration it merits."

"Well, I suppose I'll be going then," Reza sighed, rising slowly. "Oh, I forgot to tell you; her marriage was annulled. She received word several weeks ago."

Christine was free! The idea was a knife twisting in my misshapen heart. I should be planning my wedding, I thought, not sitting down here with rats and mildew. _Why couldn't she believe in me?_

"Erik." I turned from my reading.

"Christine!" Thank god I was presentable. "Come in; may I offer you tea? Wine?" She looked exquisite; my famished eyes devoured her.

"No, thank you. Erik, we must talk. Please."

"Of course." Oh, god.

Christine sat facing me, stiller than I've ever seen her. I hardly recognized her; she seemed to be such a woman. When she spoke, her voice was calm and decisive.

"I know that you understand that murder and lies are wrong, Erik. At least, you know that other people think they're wrong. You knew that I would believe your half-truths; you knew that I wanted to believe you, and that I would hear what I wanted to hear in your words. And yet, somehow, you really don't understand why it was wrong to kill Josette. You don't think it was really a lie to say you wouldn't pursue Josette, even though you knew all along that you would find a way to circumvent your promise to me. Or that it was really a lie to say what you said when I asked you if you'd killed her. I know that you have a way to make these things alright in your own mind."

"Erik, I know that you would never deliberately hurt me, but you must understand that these lies _do_ hurt me; more than if you were to strike me. I know you would do anything for me; you think it is a measure of your love that you would do murder for me. But what of _not_ doing murder for me? Could you have let her _live_ for my sake?"

I couldn't answer her; I am not sure she expected me to. I couldn't even look at her. I hung my head, just as I had as a boy, when my mother reminded me what an eternal disappointment I was to her.

"I know you were afraid of Josette pursuing you—or what you'd do when she caught up to you, but we could have dealt with that together. I know you didn't care anything for her; she was no threat to me. And Erik, it's not your responsibility to eliminate everyone who hurts me or wishes me ill. There are other ways."

Silent tears had been falling down my face for some time, but I was beginning to sob uncontrollably, and I wanted to run. I leapt to my feet, but Christine halted me.

"You can't run away, Erik; that's not the way we do things anymore."

I didn't run away. I paced, whined, sobbed, wrung my hands, couldn't breathe, and ultimately fell to my knees in despair. Suddenly, Christine was with me, comforting me. I had thought I'd never feel myself in her arms again, but she held me and let me cry till I was done. My head pounded and my ribs ached as she sat down with me. She removed my mask and made me rest my worthless head on her bosom. She stroked my hair while I clung to her like a baby monkey.

"I want you to come home with me, if you want to. But things will be different, do you understand? Erik, you must learn how to be more like other people in some very important ways. You must learn to trust me. You must learn how to be angry and not lash out. You must learn to tell the truth, even if it means you're going to get into trouble for it. You should have learned all these things when you were a little boy, my Angel; but you didn't, and it's not your fault. You're not bad, Erik; do you believe me?"

She made me look at her. I nodded yes and tried to smile; but no, I didn't believe it. I shook my head and hid in her arms again.

"No, I know you don't believe me now, but you will. There is so much I'm only just beginning to understand about you—and probably myself, too. We have a lot of talking to do, my Love. "

She stood, holding out her hand.

"Will you come home with me now? It's dark outside; it's alright."


	29. Chapter 29

I awoke in my own bed, with Christine curled up behind me. I felt like a man who's had his death sentence commuted. I stretched and turned onto my back, slipping my arm around her.

"You slept well; you never stirred," she murmured, snuggling up close. "So did I; it's been a long time since I've slept so well...I've missed you."

"Christine, you love me still?" I wondered.

"Of course."

"But why?"

"Why do you love me?" she asked.

"That's different…"

"If you say so."

"So what happens now, Christine? I mean, with you and me?"

"Well, I think first we should have some breakfast and tell Reza you've come home, hm?" She stroked my cheek with her precious fingertips. "Oh, I've missed you!" she exclaimed suddenly, embracing me tightly.

Right, she was squeezing me; said she's missed me twice in as many minutes; so perhaps I could just assume we'd returned to normal. I pressed my eager anatomy against her hip and slid a hand under her gown.

"I've missed you, my Angel…is this allowed?"

"Not simply allowed, it is encouraged," she purred. "When I said I missed you, I meant all of you. Haven't I told you I've missed you?." She blessed me with her musical laugh and her glorious body.

. . . 

"What is this apparition I see?" Reza beamed and embraced me. "When did you come home?"

"Last night. Christine came to see me."

"And talked some sense into you, I see."

"I don't know about that," I sipped my coffee. "She says that things will have to be different now, that I have to learn to be more like other men."

"This should be an interesting transformation."

"I don't know why she still wants me, Reza," I confessed.

"I don't know why she wanted you to begin with," he chuckled warmly. "Love is strange, my friend. I would suggest that you thank god for your luck and not ask too many questions."

I heard footfalls upstairs, so I excused myself and collected some breakfast and coffee for Christine. She was dressing when I entered, but smiled and crawled onto the bed.

"Thank you, Erik; how sweet!" She pitched in heartily.

"Christine, you said things have to be different," I opened uncomfortably. "I feel as though the sword of Damocles is hanging over my head and any moment—"

"Erik, no; you're not on probation, my Love. I'll help you, I told you. The first thing I think you should do is let Josette's brother know what's become of her. He deserves that."

"What do you want me to do?" I demanded, wide eyed. "Knock on the door and say, Ah, yes, I offed your sister?"

"No, but…—she is…at the Lourve? in the cave-in, right?" she asked, somewhat uncomfortably.

What a bizarre thing to discuss with Christine.

"Yes,." I admitted.

"Surely you could find some way to tell him that she was found, without—"

"But you don't want me to--Do you expect me to tell the truth about it? You said no more lying."

"No, you're going to have to…be creative." She fished into her jewelry box and produced a tasteful calling card: 'Cesar Marie-Josee de la Viez Boulanger Charbonneau'. Excuse me; I couldn't even drum up a single last name.

"Christ."

"Erik," she said softly, "will you tell me about it?"

"Why?" I agonized.

"Because I want to know," she shrugged, as if it should be obvious.

"What do you want to know? If I enjoyed it?" Again, hot, angry, shameful tears overwhelmed me.

"I meant, will you tell me about it after you speak to M. Charbonneau." She reached out and squeezed my hand. "I wish you wouldn't overreact so."

"Oh. Yes, I'll let you know what happens." I sighed. "I suppose I should…take her to him."

"Oh dear," Christine gulped. "Oh dear!" She bolted for the bathroom, wherein (I gather) she lost her breakfast.

I gave her a few minutes; and then escorted her back to bed. She was pale and wobbly, very appreciative of the cool cloth I produced for her forehead.

"I'm sorry, Darling. I should've kept that thought to myself."

"No, it's alright. It's just…" Christine sighed and got that dimple over her left brow which belied her irritation. Under the circumstances, I believe I can be forgiven for jumping to conclusions and panicking.

"What! What did I do!"

"Erik, will you stop being such a ninny; you didn't do anything. It's not your fault. Honestly, you have to stop this; you're not at fault every time I frown!" she scolded.

"How am I supposed to know that? You certainly sound irritated with me!" I whined.

"Well, now I am, because you're being such a whiney baby, but I wasn't initially." Her brow crinkled again. "I didn't want to say anything yet, because you've only just returned home, and you've enough to worry about—and I know how you love to worry."

"I do not love to worry," I grumbled. "You talk to Reza too much. Didn't want to say anything about what?"

"About—are you sitting? Yes. About… that we made a baby."

I didn't faint; I lay down swiftly and had palpitations, but I didn't faint.

"How could we have done that?" I demanded. "I've not been here for months. Anyway--"

"It only takes once, Erik."

"I know that, Madame, you don't have to treat me like an idiot!" When I glared at her, she got that 'I'm going to cry' look. "This isn't going well at all," I confessed, running a nervous hand through my hair. "Christine, I'm sorry. I'm not doubting you, but you look…normal."

"I only look normal because you didn't bother to look at me that closely when you had the chance. You were in too much of a lather," she pouted.

"Of course I looked at you, Angel," I soothed.

"How did you miss this, then?" she demanded. She drew her gown up brazenly. It was a bump. It wasn't a particularly large bump, but it was certainly more of one than Christine ever had.

"It's…not _that _obvious," I waffled. I was hopeful that was a good thing to say.

"Hmph." She humphed, but she seemed mollified.

"Exactly, ah, how much of a baby is it?"

"Well, it's…s right before you left. It's nearly four month's of a baby. It will be obvious before long." It was impossible for me to tell if she was fretting or just stating a fact. Without even realizing I was doing so, I began to pace.

"Now, Christine, see here, the last time we had occasion to discuss such a thing, I was sorry we did so. But now, well, now it's different because it's real, and I don't intend to brook any women's rights nonsense. I expect you to marry me, and I expect that we'll all three of us will have the same last name, whatever it may be. I hope we're not going to argue about this, but—"

"Alright.," She said brightly.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said alright."

"Alright, what?" I asked, like an idiot.

"Alright, I'll marry you and we'll all three of us have the same last name. What is it going to be?" she asked mildly.

"What is what going to be?" I admit I was lost.

"What is our last name going to be?"

"Um, Gaston said I could use his…wait, you're not giving me any argument about this at all. Why not?" I demanded warily.

"Because it's different now. I'm a compromised woman," she giggled. "I'm at your mercy. What will I do if you don't make an honest woman of me?"

I laughed and fell onto the bed with her. I shoved her gown up over her breasts and covered her ripe body with kisses.

"You're never at my mercy, Darling. I've been at your mercy since you were seven years old.," I confessed, measuring her breasts within my hands. "You do look different, it's a wonder I didn't notice; I must've been in a lather, as you said. You look like a woman."

"I am a woman, you fool,." she smiled, shoving my head toward her lap.

"If you abuse me I'll withdraw my attentions, Madame, and I'm just getting to the good part. I meant to say that you're curvaceous and succulent. Before you were girlish; no less delectable, just differently so."

"Erik, it's alright then? You're not upset about it?" she worried.

"Not yet, Christine. I'll take some time for it to sink in, and then I assure you, I'll panic in earnest. Are you sure it's alright for me to fiddle thus with a mother-to-be?"

"I think it's good for me to be happy, and your fiddling makes me very happy. I suppose that counts for something." She helped me out of my shirt.

"Christine, do you really want this? Me? This baby?"

"Erik! The baby is here; what am I supposed to do now? It's a bit late, isn't it?" she squealed.

"There are ways around these things; you certainly don't have to keep either of us. You could give the baby away; you wouldn't have to marry me if you didn't want to. You could--"

"Erik, stop it!" she fell to crying again. "How can you say that? You have to stop saying these things! I love you, Erik, I want to be your wife, and I love this baby you gave me."

I gathered her up and soothed her, cursing myself. Suddenly it seemed I couldn't do anything right; every word I spoke was the wrong one. Everyone knows that women get especially sensitive when they're…like so. I sighed.

"Don't cry, Christine. I've been so much trouble to you, that's all I'm trying to say."

"That's in the past!. I want you to marry me and take care of us; don't you want us?"

"Come, don't be silly, Angel. You're overwrought; it's natural in your condition. Of course I want you. Please don't cry."

In time, tThe crisis was averted. I kissed and petted her, rubbed her back, and; Christine dropped off to sleep, reassured. In the quiet as I soothed her, my panic began to take root and sprout. I decided to go downstairs to worry it into full bloom with my Persian friend.

"What? A brandy at barely ten in the morning? In trouble already, and not even home a day!" " he grinned.

"Oh, I got in this mess before I even left," I confessed weakly.

"Really? What have you done?"

"Plenty. Christine's nearly half gone; did she tell you?" I tossed the brandy back and helped myself to another.

"Half gone? I don't understand."

"It seems I left her with a little something when I ran off. I have to sit. I'm going to lose my breakfast."

"A little something…a little something?" I watched understanding dawn on Reza's face. " You mean a little living something?"

"Mm-hm. It doesn't seem to have occurred to her that she'll give birth to a monster."

"You don't know that, Erik."

"No, but I will do soon enough. She'll hate me then for good," I laughed nervously.

"Of course she won't!"

"You know, Daroga, I told her a little while ago that it would take me some time to let this sink in, before I'd begin to panic. Well, I've begun to panic…"

I fell into Reza's arms and shook like a rabbit.


	30. Chapter 30

My mad Creole left a privileged life when she decided to pursue me and her doom. It was not immediately clear about how her family came to be so well positioned, but I made a mental note to ask Gaston. My fat friend either knew everyone in Paris or could find out about them.

Cesar Boulanger Charbonneau was as darkly handsome as his sister, but unlike her, there was nothing eerie or insane about him. He greeted me with grace which did not wholly mask the shock of his recognition. "Forgive me, Sir, I assure you I mean no offense in staring; it is just that I…was at the Opera the night of the fire. I never expected to see you in my home," he explained.

I nodded. He offered me a seat, which I accepted, and a drink, which I declined against my better judgment.

"You know something of my sister." His eyes darkened; if there was any hope in them after all this time, I did not see it.

"I regret to say that I have no good news for you," I admitted.

"Yes," he sighed. "Please, start wherever you will. I am at your service." I noticed his hands trembling, and I did not want to start at all. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I had never thought of her as someone with a brother who loved her dearly. I had always thought of her as a mad loner…like myself.

"Some time ago, you came to see Christine, Comtesse de Chagny, asking after your sister. The Comtesse is my fiancée. I thought little of it at the time, because…frankly…" I had no idea how to proceed. What did he know of his sister's proclivities?

Cesar seemed to sense the origin of my discomfort. "Please, I hope you will speak freely. I assure you that nothing you say will leave here," he vowed.

Still, I didn't know what to say. After a moment, Cesar spoke again.

"I did not realize that Josette had made contact with you. Was she very much trouble to you?"

That was an unexpected turn. Still, I wasn't about to expose myself until I was sure.

"I…don't know what you mean."

"I knew that she had become somewhat obsessed with the Opera Ghost, but I had no idea she had sought you out. I am sorry," Cesar paused, lost in thought. "My sister is an artist; did you know that? Come," he said suddenly.

Cesar led me to the third floor, unlocked a door and motioned me inside.

"This is her sanctuary."

It was a grand room, stretching the whole length of the house. At one end were a bed, a dressing table and armoire, but the greatest expanse was a studio. It reeked of paint and solvent; drawing table, spilled pastels, canvases half-covered, sketches…the Opera house was everywhere. Flames; the chandelier; red and gold; elegantly dressed people; the orchestra.

Cesar brought me to a large easel. "She was working on this when she disappeared." He threw the covering back and revealed my face, surrounded by flames. The flames were engulfing the chandelier; elsewhere, I saw my coffin and lasso being consumed, and in an unfinished corner, it looked as though she intended the flames to consume Christine as well.

"If you don't mind, I need to sit…please," I quavered.

"Of course. I'm sorry; it must be a shock, but…I wanted you to understand that you could speak freely. I know that Josette has strange ways."

Seated once again in the parlor, I accepted the brandy Cesar offered.

"I did not understand the white mask in the painting until I saw you today. When I saw you in person, I realized that she had pursued you."

"Yes," I admitted. "She wanted…things from me that…I could not give her. She was quite persuasive, and I admit that I did not entirely know my own mind for a time. Likely, she felt encouraged, which only made it more difficult when it became clear to her that I was committed to Christine. I am sorry to have to tell you this." I felt like hell.

"No, it is alright," he said softly.

"I am working under the Louvre, making storage vaults. We have had two accidents; one in which I lost three men. Another happened at night. It was only my office; we assumed that no one was there. Given the time that had been lost on the earlier cave-in, I elected not to reopen my office; there seemed to be no need to do so. I was away for several months, and when I returned, Christine told me that your sister was still unaccounted for."

"She went looking for you at your place of business?" He looked horrified.

"I am sorry to say that—"

"Where is she?" His black eyes were softer and gentler than hers.

"She is…there. I didn't want to just," I shrugged, "bring her, without a chance to prepare you. I am sorry."

In his grief, he threw himself into my arms. What strange people these Creoles are.

"Everyone told me to put her away, but no; I was so sure I could take care of her. If I'd listened, she'd be safe now. Safe, but locked away!"

He looked at me with those big wet eyes and I would have given anything to help him feel better.

"She would have been miserable locked away! She didn't really mean anyone harm!"

"You did the right thing, Cesar. Better for her to have a few years in her beautiful studio." What else could I say?

When I felt I could leave Cesar safely, I went and brought his sister to him. When I returned, I was grateful to see he was not alone. Two friends had arrived to support him; beautiful rich boys like him. He took the sheet-draped collection of bones from my arms with such tenderness; I have never seen its equal. I felt another pang of jealousy for the love of a sibling, and swore that Christine and I would not allow our child to grow up alone.

When I took my leave, Cesar rushed to embrace me. "Thank you, thank you. And thank you for your kindness to Josette; I know you were good to her, in spite of the trouble she caused you."

"Right," I nodded, screaming inside to escape. My mind was writhing inside my skull.

I ran back to work and hid in the rubble behind my newly uncovered table. I played the lasso through my hands and searched the ceiling for a place to hang it. Nothing there; the Opera house would have a better place, surely. Besides, it was more fitting. I thought of Christine and the baby. In my mind, it was only a matter of a few months before she would wish me dead—once she saw the creature I'd put inside her. Everything I touched was instantly ruined, it seemed. Dead or ugly…as if I could wilt a flower simply by turning my gaze on it. I was a Midas of ugliness and destruction. It was clear to me that the child was a bad idea. Marrying Christine was a bad idea. My ever having touched her was a bad idea—no, it was an obscenity. What could I have been thinking? The greatest obscenity of all was that she continued to love me. How could it be that she welcomed me, wanted my offspring?

Suddenly, I had a blinding insight that I'd poisoned Christine's mind, turning it from truth and beauty. The longer she stayed enmeshed with me, the greater the danger that she'd be utterly destroyed and become what I most despised: an aberration like me.

I penned Christine a note and found a boy to deliver it for a few sous. I slipped down to my lair to collect my emergency funds. After dark, I wrapped my cape close around me and slipped out of Paris on an eastbound train.

_Dear Christine,_

_Forgive me, but as you know me better than anyone does, it should not surprise you that I take the coward's way out. I know this is the right thing to do, but as usual, I don't trust myself to be equal to the task. _

_I must go. I ruin everything I touch; I've ruined you, and it's the last thing I ever wanted to do. It was right for me to let you go with Raoul, and wrong for you to return to me. Someday you'll see the insidious nature of my hold on you; you actually convinced yourself that it was me you wanted! _

_Get out of that house, Angel, and make yourself a life of beauty. Take up the bottom of my coffin; there is money there which you will need to get yourself started. Once I am settled I will send money to Reza to see that you are taken care of._

_Christine, you must let that child die if it is born wrong. Put it away from you; it is the kindest thing you can do. I am sorry, I know that everything in your innocent heart rebels against it, but I know—I KNOW, Christine. The horrible face is merely a symptom of the disease. The sickness is inside. If you cannot let it die, give it to the nuns. Let them raise it as an orphan. I beg you; don't let it ruin your life. Move past this shameful interlude; erase it however you can._

_I have always tried to treasure your happiness above my own. For awhile, I thought it was possible for those opposites to coexist; now that I see the truth of it, I want to make it right. Please, be happy._

_Forget me._

_E._


	31. Chapter 31

I made my way to Budapest. It had enough of the orient about it that I knew I would be able to function. Once there, it was not difficult to locate the 'wrong' part of the city; my facility with languages helped me in this. I got a room at an inn—temporarily, of course--and found a coffee house patronized by criminals of all sorts. I needed money and I wanted to remain invisible; thus, a quick review of my skills indicated that I would have to hire myself out as a killer. It was that or a male prostitute…ha-ha. I was alright with it. I was alright with anything; I was numb.

In a matter of days, I found a cellar to let. The shrewd widow, Erszebet, was easily distracted from my face by the cut of my clothes and the contents of my wallet. Our understanding was immediate: I told her I required one meal, absolute privacy, and cleanliness. Further, I advised her that I'd pay handsomely for any word she passed on to me, should anyone ever happen to come asking around for someone answering my description.

I had to kill someone who annoyed me straightaway in order to establish myself among the denizens of the coffeehouse. The most difficult part of that was choosing the hapless victim, as they all annoyed me. After this, things proceeded apace. I had work and was able to send money to Christine within twelve weeks of leaving Paris.

I had enough money left over to keep myself in books, and I was adopted by a mangy tabby cat. I brought her in, cleaned her up, and named her Josette. A few weeks' good food put her coat to rights, and she quickly blossomed into a lovely young lady. But it was not as good as it sounds; I kept myself awake until I fell over exhausted. Awake, I could keep myself busy and distracted, but I was tormented by dreams of Christine, kissing and glowing with love at an ugly little boy. Whether it was supposed to be me, or the thing I'd gotten on her, I don't know.

Around the time Christine was being delivered of her gargoyle, I experienced a reawakening of my interest in feminine charms. Erszebet shared her home with two daughters: Ilona, the elder, had an apparently fatherless brat, old enough to toddle and squeal, with a perpetually snotty nose. The younger, Anci, was the object of my lust. She had large, limpid brown eyes, and was built like a girl in a Rubens painting. Besides her lush body, it was her innocence which attracted me. She lacked her mother's guile; likely she was not especially bright, but I was not unduly concerned with that. I did not see much of Anci, since I took my meal alone in my cellar, but sometimes if I was feeling especially cheerful, I would carry my dishes up rather than allowing one of the women to come collect them. Apparently her mother noticed me noticing her, because in due course it seemed Anci was assigned full responsibility for my care. She brought and carried off my meals, she cleaned and she saw to changing my linens.

Initially, I was horrified at Erszebet sacrificing her daughter to a masked wolf in the hope of increased financial gain, so when Anci appeared in my cellar, I made myself scarce. Soon, however, I tossed my misgivings away. I reasoned that it was better she threw in with me than some penniless bastard who beat her when he came home drunk.

Next time Anci came, I didn't run. I pretended to read while I watched her bustle around. I liked watching her bend over my bed, tucking the blanket in. I loved the way her breasts threatened to burst the lacings of her bodice when she put her back into dusting. I dropped my book, mumbling, "I've got something for you to put your back into."

I caught her by surprise.

"I'm sorry, Sir; I didn't hear?"

Once again I felt like a cobra with a sparrow, but it was exhilarating.

"I said you're breaking my heart," I whispered, kissing her hand. I drew her toward me and bade her sit on my lap. When I released her hand, it fluttered protectively to her décolletage.

"Not me, Sir. How?"

"By ignoring me; avoiding me…" we played a game whereby I bestowed a slight caress and moved on before her hand could catch up with mine. Cheek, wrist, back, knee, lips, breast.

"Mama says not to bother you."

"But you do bother me, child," I whispered, drawing the laces of her bodice open. "You know about bothering men," I accused. She shuddered and bit her lip when she felt my tongue on her earlobe.

"No, Sir, I don't."

"Why do I find that so very hard to believe, Anci?"

The only objection Anci raised to my hand on her breast was to warn me that her Mama was right upstairs.

"Well, we shall have to be very quiet, then."

I led her to my freshly-made bed, laid her down and situated myself between her thighs. She uttered not a sound when I eased her skirt up, but she had plenty to say when my tongue opened her. I encouraged her to bite on the pillow until later in the proceedings, when I advised her that she would have her choice of shoulder, neck, ear or lip.

Unfortunately, later turned out to be much later. Anci's silken thighs were muffling my hearing sufficiently that I nearly died of heart failure when she leapt away, gasping that her Mama was hollering for her. As she laced herself up, I extracted a promise from her that she would return when the household was asleep.

Anci was as good as her word; at midnight, she was in my bed and out of her shift. Mindless with lust, I devoured her, only dimly aware of her shock and discomfort. Afterwards, she clung to me, wanting some sort of reassurance I couldn't be bothered to give. As soon as my reason returned, I was empty and I wanted Christine.

Perhaps it is just a game I play to make myself seem more human, but I tell myself that I dislike hurting people. I vowed to stay away from Anci, since I couldn't care for her. But if I tried to avoid her, she'd steal down to me at night, tearful and needy. If I was kind to her out of guilt, she took it for encouragement. Either way, I ended up in her lap.

I gave her money. The first time, she bought herself a brand new dress--the first brand new dress she'd ever had, she said, that she had not made herself. She was thrilled. Some weeks later, I asked her why there were no more new clothes.

"Mama boxes my ears and makes me give her the money," she confessed.

I cornered Erszebet about it. I saw no point in maintaining some illusion of decency between the two of us. "What do you mean taking Anci's money? Give it back, damn you!"

"I've worked all my life for those girls—she—"

"You might as well have turned her out on the street!"

"But I didn't, did I, Sir? She is all yours, and a fresher, cleaner girl you couldn't find in this city. What do you care what I do with the money? You get what you want, and Anci is happy with her girlish fancies of love!" she chuckled knowingly. I was hard pressed to decide whether I hated myself or Erszebet more. But then I remembered who I was; what I was, and I regained my perspective. Erszebet was just a poor woman, trying to do the best she could. In no way did she compare to a murderous monster.

At then end of my first year in Budapest, I took stock. I had killed fourteen men; I knew I could do well financially for a few years, until I had to move on. In other respects, however, I couldn't have been worse. I thought of Christine daily; it wasn't improving at all.

I began to think about making my final escape.


	32. Chapter 32

"Sir?"

I'd done a job in the small hours and was sleeping the day away. I have always been able to gauge the degree of my self-loathing by the amount of sleeping I do.

"Sir?"

I rolled over and did a heroic job at sounding less irritated than I felt. "Anci. For the three thousand, nine hundred seventy first time: Erik."

"Erik."

"Yes. Come here, child, Erik's chilly." Anci had endeared herself to me as much as it was possible to do so with her unquestioning obedience. She was most definitely not Christine.

"Sir, Mama says for you to come upstairs. Erik."

"Why?" I frowned. I was not accustomed to responding to directives from that woman.

"There is a gentleman looking for you."

"Goddammit!"

Anci squealed and cringed. I had never struck her, but someone most definitely had.

"Not you, child," I soothed absently. If Anci had a liability, it was her limitless need for reassurance. "You're a good girl." As much as I regretted it, I was forced to put her away from me. "Go fetch your mother for me, hm? Go on, we'll play later."

Erzsebet was duly summoned.

"What did I tell you the first day I came here, woman?" I demanded. "Privacy; tell me if someone comes looking for me. Is everyone here stupid?"

"This is a gentleman," she sniffed. "He doesn't mean you any harm."

"I see; and we all know what an excellent judge of character you are."

Erzsebet ignored the jab and flounced off. I dressed, finishing off the ensemble with my Persian dagger--best I could do under the circumstances—and headed upstairs to meet my guest. Before I cleared the stairway, an extremely natty glove landed at my feet.

"BASTARD!"

"Raoul, how lovely to see you." I stooped cautiously to fetch his glove.

"Choose your weapons, you coward! Fiend! I cannot find words foul enough! I _will_ kill you, or die trying!"

"A duel? Are you serious?"

"Do not toy with me, monster! Choose your weapons!" What a change time had wrought in Raoul. He looked at me with such unveiled hatred; I'd never seen it burn so brightly in him before.

What was it about him and Christine? They seemed to be the only people on earth who could remind me of my tenuous link with the rest of mankind. I wished I could forget the thing that I could never succeed at, but they would not let me. So long as they lived, they would be there, demanding that I try to be human.

"Swords," I replied.

"Tomorrow morning?"

I nodded. "You came all this way to kill me?"

"I would gladly descend to hell to kill you."

Again I nodded. "I am sorry that I took her from you. You are a good man."

Something in what I said infuriated him. He flew at me, knocking me to the floor. I welcomed his strong young hands around my neck. When he realized I was offering no resistance, he threw me back down in disgust.

"You haven't even got the courage to end your miserable life! I didn't come to put down a mangy dog. Sad, pathetic man. GET UP!" he roared. He kicked me and I felt my ribs give way.

Anci shrieked and threw herself across me protectively. "No more, Sir, please!" She struggled to help me to my feet.

"Oh, Jesus!" Raoul exclaimed bitterly. He pressed some money on Erzsebet and told her to see to me, and asked her where he could find 'more suitable' accommodations as Anci bore me away.

"Erik! I will be back tomorrow, do you hear?" he called after me.

"Get up! Get out!"

Anci wailed as Raoul dragged her out of bed. I clutched at the covers too quickly and winced in pain.

"How old are you?" he demanded of her. He was glaring at me and shaking his head.

"Fifteen, Sir," she mumbled.

"Fifteen; for the love of god. Go on, get!"

Anci scurried away.

"I thought she was older. She looks older." I groaned as I tried to sit up.

"If you were a horse I would not waste a bullet on you," Raoul spat.

"Do you intend to let my ribs heal before you run me through?"

"I don't intend to run you through at all. I came here to kill a man; I haven't found one. I sat up half the night thinking of what to do now," Raoul fumed. "The only way I can think of to make you suffer is to let you see the suffering you've left in your wake. You're coming back to France with me."

"The hell I am!" I attempted to struggle upright, but Raoul punched my injured side again.

"The hell you're not. I know you don't mind dying, but I'll wager you don't wish to be tortured. I'm sure you've made a few 'friends' in Budapest. Come with me or I'll find them."

"Go to hell!"

"After you, Phantom."

I considered my options and decided the best was to go along and wait for an opportunity to give him the slip. Meanwhile, I saw an opportunity to help Anci to a better life. "I have to bring the girl with me."

"You're even sicker than I took you for!" he grimaced.

"No. The mother—the child has no life here now, not after—"

"Not after you've ruined her, you mean to say?" he sneered.

"Precisely; thank you for that. She is a good child; she would be a fine domestic. Let me bring her."

"If I catch you playing pat-a-cake, I'll change that beautiful voice of yours," he threatened.

"Understood." I remained in awe of how cruel Raoul had become.

Throwing Anci into the mix disrupted Raoul's plans somewhat. While he re-evaluated, I sent her off to procure some traveling clothes for herself and prayed she wouldn't come back with anything that made her look too much of a tart. When she returned with a relatively quiet blue suit, I embarked upon the task of telling her that we were headed to Paris, that it was a secret from Mama, and that she would have to pass as my daughter on the journey. Then came the part where I tried to explain that Raoul expected impeccable behavior on both our parts; this was simply too much for her. Perhaps my Hungarian was not equal to the task, but the closest Anci could come was that Raoul was sniffing after a little something for himself.

"Tell her she'll have her own room on the train!" he yelled, exasperated. "How hard can it be?"

"You tell her! She's never been alone for a minute in her life!"

Meanwhile, Anci cried silently, because when people hollered, she got hit. I reached out to comfort her. "No, Anci—"

"AH! Hands off!"

"Oh for god's sake, man, she's frightened; she's got no one but me!"

"Make it a paternal job…" he waved his sword ominously.

"Whatever."

Thus our trip began. Anci clung to my hand so tightly it brought tears to my eyes. Raoul hissed at me everytime she flubbed over 'Sir-Erik-Papa'. After the first night, during which none of us got any sleep due to her incessant howling, Raoul permitted her to sleep with me. So she nestled her cushy bottom into my lap, drew my hand over her breasts and drifted happily into dreamland. I suspect Raoul did not sleep any more than I did; he was lying awake listening for telltale rustling and et cetera so he could kill me.

At breakfast I nursed my coffee and watched Anci slathering an obscene amount of butter onto a biscuit. It was stimulating.

"When do you plan to explain her new life to her?" Raoul asked.

"I don't know. She hasn't got a new life yet."

"She has where you're concerned, or the authorities will have something to say about it." He turned to Anci. "Anci, look here, Erik can't be your man anymore. He has a woman in Paris, do you understand? Wife?"

"No I don't!"

"You think not?" he hissed. Anci leapt up and raced from the dining car, smelling an argument. We followed her back to our compartment, bickering the entire way.

"I told her to move on! I told her to start fresh! I expressly told her to forget me," I insisted.

"You really are a madman! Forget you how?" he slammed the door behind us. Anci ran to the bathroom and locked herself in. Raoul glared after her. "You bring that bit of infant fluff along, all worried about giving her a better life—is that supposed to compensate in your twisted mind for what you did to Christine? There is something very, very wrong with you!"

"I know that!" I hollered. "That's why I left!"

"Don't try to convince me that your motivation was noble, Erik. You forget how much history we have. You left because you're a damned coward, and you couldn't stand to see what you'd done to someone you claimed to love!"

"That's not true! I realized I couldn't be like you! She needs someone like you!" I shook my head, clapping my hands over my ears. Raoul shoved something I recognized as a photograph in front of me, but I clamped my eyes shut before I could see the image.

"See what you did!" he roared. "I'm going to make you see!"

I was trembling; I didn't want to cry in front of this boy. Frantic, I struggled with the door, throwing myself against it uselessly.

"Nowhere to run this time, Phantom. You're not much without your trap-door, are you?" Raoul's voice was an ugly whisper. The room was too small and too hot. I couldn't breathe…

"You didn't die," Raoul spat. "See? Even when you faint like a girl, I'm still here when you come to your senses."

"Leave me alone. Anci, be a good girl and fetch Erik a brandy." I tried to sit up, but the room was not stable yet.

"No. Tell Madam Erik to get it!" Anci was most unattractive from crying. She looked at me as if I was the devil himself.

I turned dead eyes on Raoul. "Well well, haven't you been a busy little bee."

"I am not married, Anci; I do not have a Madam Erik. The girl in Paris—who this oaf thinks is still mine—I left her when I came to Budapest. However, I'm bringing you to Paris so that you don't have to be my girl anymore. I will see to it that you have a fine position someplace, and you'll meet a handsome young man and marry and have lots of lovely babies. Doesn't that sound marvelous?"

"No; I want to stay with you," she sniffed.

I fished for a handkerchief. "Here, child. You cannot stay with me. In Paris, you are a bit young to be the companion of an old man like me. Of course, we'll remain friends, but no more…you know."

She thought hard on that. Raoul studied me as I lied. I made a mental note to consider carefully how to avenge myself on him. He and I did not speak much for the remainder of the journey.

Upon arrival in Paris, we went directly from the train into a carriage. I heard Raoul give Reza's address.

"You're taking me to Reza?"

"Christine is there," Raoul responded blandly.

"No; I told her to leave there."

"You _left_," he spat.

"Wait, can't you give me some time to prepare?" I already knew his answer; he ignored me.

"You know something, Erik? As large a city as Paris is, news travels. When the bishop caught word that Christine had given birth, he counted backward on his fingers and revoked the annulment. I had to explain this to my fiancée less than a month before the wedding." He nodded at me, eyes glowing with hatred once again. "We had to explain this to all our family and friends. I had to explain to some officials who thought perhaps I wanted to commit bigamy. And, of course, I had to give my name to your little bon voyage gift."

I felt an encroaching queasiness.

"Reza said Christine had a horrible time of it," he continued. "She was ill, and tremendous. The child was huge: ten pounds. Do you know how big that is? You know who was with her? No one: strangers."

Darius was puttering in the herb garden when we pulled up outside. One look at me emerging from the carriage and he was off faster than an opera rat's tutu. I took two steps and proceeded to throw my guts up.

Raoul took a death grip on my arm.

"You can puke, piss yourself, faint, whatever you like; don't fret. I'm right here by your side," he grinned.


	33. Chapter 33

Reza appeared at the door, a huge black cloud over his head.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"I happened to be in Budapest," Raoul smiled, "And stepped in a bit of dog shit. I went to scrape it off, and what do you know? It was our own dear Erik."

As I moved past him over the threshold, Reza whispered aghast, "Erik, who is this child?" I just glared at him.

"Comtesse?" Raoul asked Darius, indicating the parlor. Big eyed, the manservant nodded silently. Raoul pushed the door open and backed away, grinning.

"After you, Phantom."

I gasped. Christine was a pale, emaciated ghost of her former self. There was a blanket draped over her chest; Raoul was right; the child was huge.

"Why did you bring him here? You agreed to leave him alone." Her voice was as beautiful as ever, but thinner and more delicate. "Excuse me, please."

Raoul jerked me around to give her some privacy as she buttoned up. "I didn't intend to bring him, Christine. I went to challenge him to a duel, but he's too pathetic to kill."

"Alright, thank you," she called softly. My pulse roared in my ears as we turned.

It was a boy. He was somewhere around a year old, but the size of a child twice his age. He was sprawled all over Christine's lap; head back, mouth open, arms over his head. Everything about his posture demonstrated that he was absolutely secure in the knowledge that he was safe and loved. He had a head full of Christine's curls and a perfect face, like an angel. When I looked up, Christine was studying my face, emotionless.

"Well, Raoul, do you intend to stand here and listen to our entire conversation, or will you eavesdrop in the hallway with Reza?" she asked.

Duly chastened, Raoul ducked out. Christine stood with some difficulty under the child's weight and approached to lay him in my arms.

"Masson Gustave Chagny; your son. You're just in time for his birthday next week."

I took him from her. He was a fine, solid boy; a beautiful child. No one would imagine he was not Raoul's. I was trying to sort out what I was feeling when Christine slapped me: once; twice; three times. The baby started awake at the sound and howled. She snatched him from me, eyes blazing in her gaunt face. Purring, she offered him her breast again and he fell silent. I marveled at how they gazed into each other's eyes; they seemed like lovers. Christine made an exquisite Madonna; I felt my own eyes beginning to burn.

"No wonder you're so thin," I blurted. "He's too big--"

"As usual, you don't know what you're talking about, Erik," she snapped. "He only does it to settle for naps and bedtime."

Suddenly, she demanded "Why did you come?"

"As Raoul said, we were going to duel, but before we did, he realized that I intended to let him kill me. It infuriated him. He said he was going to bring me back and make me see all the suffering I'd left behind."

"Still trying to be a tragic hero and die for love." She smiled to herself, shaking her head.

"I never stopped loving you, Christine. I don't blame you for not believing me, but I didn't want to make a mess of your life!"

Christine raised a skeletal hand. "Stop, Erik. You know, if only you would admit that you were terrified and had to run, I might forgive you."

I felt so alien with this woman that I adored. I didn't know what to say to her.

"You seem unwell," I ventured.

"I have not been well since you left, Erik."

I lowered my eyes.

"First, it was the shock of being abandoned," she continued. "Then, toward the end, Masson was quite large and I was uncomfortable. The delivery was not an easy one."

I groaned. "I'm sorry. Christine, I'm sorry!"

"Please keep your voice down," she murmured, brushing the baby's hair from his brow. "He's teething and fussy. I like him to sleep, if he can. Besides, you can say you're sorry till you're blue in the face."

"I mean it," I protested.

"I'm sure you do. You always were glib," she shrugged. "Anyway, you saw what Raoul wanted you to see: frail, abandoned Christine. You can go."

I lifted Christine's hand from her baby's head and covered it with kisses and tears. "You're better off with Raoul, Angel."

She snatched her hand away. "I am not with Raoul, Erik. It is Masson and me, here with Reza and Darius."

"Christine, why didn't you leave here and move on? I've sent you money. If not Raoul, you can find another to love you."

"I have a man to love me; this little man right here. Where would you suggest I go? I can't leave Reza; he's old. You broke his heart, too, when you left, by the way."

"I'll speak to him, if he will speak with me. Is he angry with me too?"

"I'm not angry with you, Erik. I was angry with you, but no more. And for your information, I don't want your money, or another man. I wanted you."

"Jesus, Christine, why not just slap me again?" I buried my face in my hands.

"Firstly because I don't want to wake Masson, but mostly because you don't deserve to get off so easily. That's right; you think that you disappear and Christine will forget about you and move on, so you can be noble and say, 'Yes, I was right, look how she is thriving in her new life. I gave her up for love; I am a tragic hero; I did the right thing.' No. No. As you see, I am not thriving. I miss you very day."

"Let me make it up to you, then."

Christine groaned again. "That has to be the stupidest thing you've ever said, Erik, and you've come up with a few gems in your day. How would you begin to make it up to me?"

"I don't know," I admitted.

"Well, at least that was honest."

"Can I help you? Can I play with him while you eat? You're so—he's sucking the life from you."

That was a very bad thing to say. Right before me, Christine turned to stone. I saw nothing in her eyes that I recognized.

"YOU sucked the life from me, Erik; not Masson. HE is the only thing that keeps me going. If you ever say another unkind word about him, I promise you that I won't even attend your funeral, much less see you while you live. Not that you should care."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything against him. It's just such a shock, seeing you—"

"I suppose you think it is no shock for me when Darius runs up and says 'Mr Erik, Mr Erik with the Comte and a girl!' Who is she, anyway?"

"The place I stayed, my landlady's daughter. Anci."

"And you brought her because?" Christine's eyes narrowed.

"Because I hoped she could find a decent position here, perhaps have a better life…"

"You are the absolute soul of chivalry, Erik," she dripped sarcasm. "Is she pregnant?" Christine's gaze was so unwavering, it was unsettling. I couldn't bear to think about what it meant that it was so easy for Christine to see…what Anci had been to me.

"I don't believe so."

"Good for you, telling the truth again. You see? I'm taking note."

"I didn't bring her here for me," I rushed to explain. "I'm through with that; I wanted—"

"I understand; she was a 'convenience'. Now you're home, I suspect you're hoping for better things."

"I can't tell if you're mocking me or not," I confessed sadly.

"I'm not mocking you. I'm probably not sparing your feelings as much as you'd like, but I'm not mocking you. After all, I hardly imagined you'd be a monk when you left me…"

"But—"

"I _hope_ you're not going to say something about your face." Christine groaned and rolled her eyes. "Really, Erik: find something else to blame your troubles on. Your immaturity; your lack of self-discipline; your need for constant reassurance; your low frustration level; your absolute refusal to learn from your mistakes; please, not your face. Clearly your face is no impediment when it comes to securing playmates."

"Are you finished?" I demanded.

"No; have you had enough?"

"Yes, I believe I have. I don't even know what's going on here!" I protested.

"You're trying to determine whether I'm receptive to the idea of taking you back before you stick your neck out and ask. Typical." she smiled.

"You impertinent little baggage! I am not!"

"Keep your voice down," Christine ordered, patting the child's bottom as he stirred. "And Erik, if you want me to agree to try again, you'd be wise to hold your temper. You're expected to be contrite for a significant period; I just mention it as a suggestion."

The baby would not be stilled. He wriggled and grunted, pulled himself up and began bouncing his substantial bulk on Christine's fragile lap. I winced, though she did not seem to be suffering. She was glowing at him.

"Masson, guess who is here? Who came to see Masson?" The baby looked at her, then one way, then the other. He plopped down in her lap and looked at me with obvious recognition. A dimpled fist shot out; a chubby finger pointed.

Christine whispered, "Who is that?" He breathed something at her and she nodded.

"'SON PAPA!" he cried. He had a musical voice like his Mother's, and but his eyes were mine. It was eerie having those eyes reflected at me. Perhaps he could not pass for Raoul's.

"Yes, Masson's Papa," Christine smiled. I noticed her chin quivering. The child slipped down and sped toward me on sturdy legs. He claimed my body without hesitation, pulling himself up on trousers, sleeves, whatever came to hand. He chattered away the entire time as he clambered into my lap, pausing for only a moment to regard me most seriously. He did the same little eyebrow thing that I do.

"Hello, Masson, I am very pleased to meet you." I tried not to sound terribly formal, but I know nothing about children. He fell against me as if I were part of the furniture; this startled me and I caught him. He felt good in my hands; I smiled at this discovery. I looked to Christine, feeling guilty, but she watched us placidly.

Suddenly Masson went for my mask. I didn't know if this was just his personal effrontery or a general lack of consideration common to all babies, but he pried it from me with astonishing dexterity and speed.

I wanted to ask Christine for help. "I don't—"

"Ow," the baby said. Babbling something I could not make out, he patted my distorted cheek with his fat paw and kissed it.

"Yes, Masson kiss it all better," Christine translated. That was too much for me.

When he saw my tears, the baby stretched his arms around my neck, patting and soothing just as Christine would do.

"You're a good boy," I wept.

It troubled Masson that he could not comfort me sufficiently. Brows knit, he pushed down and went after Christine. Clearly he felt Mama could stop me crying if he couldn't. He led her over to me, climbed back up and conveyed that she was to kiss my cheek all better and hug and pat me. I embraced her gingerly in return, the big boy between us.

"I am only doing this for my son," she whispered in my ear. She drew away suddenly; I believe she tried to wipe a tear without my seeing. I obtained permission from Masson to don my mask. He rested content in my lap, exploring me and my clothing. He was completely unguarded and proprietary with me as he fell to comparing our hands.

"This is quite startling," I confessed. "I thought babies were wary of strangers."

"You're no stranger," Christine assured me. "He sees your picture all the time, and I've told him much about you. As you see, he's very inquisitive." Her pride shone.

"Was that wise?"

"He has a right to know about you," she declared.

Masson had lost interest in me for the moment. He slid down, landed like a log on my instep, and headed for the parlor door. He could just reach the knob if he stretched, but could not get a grip to open the door. He turned to me and said something. I could make out 'Papa' and 'Masson', I think.

"Papa cannot open the door for Masson," Christine interjected. "We must stay in here now. Would you like to read? Bring me your book, please." Funny; until then, I had not noticed the cache of baby toys in a basket near the sofa.

"NO!" The intensity of his refusal was astounding.

"Perhaps now you see why it is impossible for me to forget you?" Christine asked pointedly. She headed for Masson, and he darted off like a squirrel. I don't know what he was saying, but it sounded like baby blasphemy.

After a moment, Christine gasped, "Erik! Stop gawking like an idiot and get him!"

Well, I tackled him eventually; cracked my head and my knee. Then he shrieked his outrage and deafened me in the left ear. The way he threw himself around, I wondered how little bony Christine kept a handle on him.

Darius popped his head in to call us to dinner. Christine indicated I should put Masson down and he raced to the dining room, all drama forgotten.

"Aren't you concerned he'll stumble and crack his skull?" I worried.

"Yes; what do you suggest?" she quipped.


	34. Chapter 34

The scene in the dining room was uncanny. Reza was charming Anci, naturally; Raoul was studying Christine for clues as to what had passed between us. Masson dashed to Reza, but suddenly realized that he did not know Anci. He fell silent and shoved several fingers into his mouth, reverting to a shy, big-eyed baby. Reza said something comforting and tried to lift Masson into his lap, but the boy squirmed and ran back to Christine. It was then that I noticed Christine eyeing Anci, who looked like a cornered rabbit.

Christine executed a deft maneuver placing her and Masson next to me at the table, rather than in her usual seat. As I helped her to her chair, she glared at me. I felt as if I'd opened the door of a blast furnace. I scrupulously avoided eye-contact with Anci throughout the meal.

Eating was challenging once Masson discovered that he could monkey back and forth between Christine and me if I held my right arm a certain way. The third time he attempted the move, Christine murmured, "We do not play at the table," and gave me a withering look. Fully aware that I had no good will to trade on, I stopped immediately, but Masson was undeterred. Tugging, jerking, pulling, swinging; nothing he tried convinced me to cooperate again.

"PAPA! PAA-PAA!"

I looked at Christine helplessly; Masson appeared to be working up to a fit. She glanced at the boy, frowned at me. "Tell him no, Erik," she sighed, exasperated. I very much felt like an idiot.

"No, Masson; not right now. We can swing later, hm?"

The child threw himself to the floor, shrieking. In a flash, Christine scooped him up and off to the parlor, excusing herself.

Reza cleared his throat. "I am glad to see you, my friend."

"Daroga, I've missed you," I smiled awkwardly.

"I understand Budapest is a delightful city; what did you get up to?" he asked innocently.

I all but choked on a bit of mutton; Raoul sneezed red wine.

"Besides the obvious," Reza added, grinning wickedly. Anci grazed away in oblivion.

"Sadly, I didn't explore much." I replied flatly.

"Much _of the city_, you mean."

I relented and pretended to be absorbed in my asparagus. I wondered how long the public floggings would continue, or if I was actually going to be permitted to stay.

Anci fired a Hungarian salvo into the silence. "You said she wasn't your woman anymore."

"Later."

"Did you tell her about me? She's too skinny."

"_Later._"

Christine returned and foisted Masson upon me.

"I'm sorry," she smiled breezily. "He's overtired with all the excitement." She pitched into her food as I sat motionless like a fat masked marmot, terrified of waking the sleeping giant.

After dinner, Raoul pressed Christine for a moment alone. The old familiar feelings of homicidal rage and incoherent jealousy returned as if they'd never been away. I greeted them warmly and slipped into the back garden for a cigar with Reza.

"Erik, what happened?" he demanded; not angrily, rather baffled.

"Long story, Daroga. I went to see the Creole's brother, and I realized what a hopelessly tainted creature I am. It seemed an atrocity that Christine should be having a child with me, or that she should want me for her husband. I felt I'd poisoned her mind. I don't know…She said today that I was terrified and couldn't face up to my responsibilities, and Raoul said the same thing in Budapest. I thought I was doing right; I thought it was a good thing to set her free and let her not be saddled with me. Have I been fooling myself? Daroga, am I that far off the mark?"

"I don't think so. Or if you are, I'm sure it isn't intentional. Perhaps it is a bit of both, Erik. Perhaps you get frightened, and this sets your mind wandering in places it shouldn't go, searching for reasons why you don't measure up."

"Speaking of places one shouldn't go, what the devil does she mean, giving that goddamned fop a private audience! It's indecent!" I spat.

"I beg your pardon? You're speaking to _me_ of indecent, when you—"

"I didn't know she was that much of a child, Reza! Does she look fifteen to you?" I grumbled.

"Would it have mattered?" he asked, gently.

"Goddammit! Why do you ask me that? _Help me get rid of her!_"

"I thought Christine might shoot a lightning bolt out of her eyes when she got a look at the girl," Reza admitted.

"Yes, which is precisely why I want the girl gone. I'm not convinced that Christine will fire the bolt at Anci. She's pleasant, but not worth dying for."

"Oh really? She looks worth dying for."

"Please help yourself, Daroga. I saw you working your ineffable Persian charm before dinner."

"On the other hand, a bit of jealousy on Christine's part may be helpful to you in your current situation. Ah, what is your current situation?"

"I have no idea," I confessed. "Reza, is Christine alright?"

"She fell ill when you left," he sighed. "She lost a great deal of her will, simply gave up, and so the difficulties of her condition weighed that much more heavily. The birth was hard; the boy was just over ten pounds—a tremendous baby. It took her two full days, two nights, and into the third day to be delivered of him. She has been frail ever since," he shrugged.

We smoked quietly for several minutes.

"You are a good friend, Reza."

"And you are a good deal of trouble," he chuckled.

Anci tracked us down; she stood apart making cow eyes until Reza excused himself. I urged him to stay, but he reminded me it was inevitable that I face her.

"Is it later now?" she asked.

"Oh, god." I groaned.

"I want to stay with you."

"Anci, I told you; no. I'm not going to leave you stranded. I'll see you settled somewhere, but you can't stay with me."

"Because of that skinny woman?"

"No; not entirely."

She pressed against me and smiled. "You still like me, Sir."

"It doesn't matter, child. I told you, no more."

I lurched past her and rejoined Reza in the parlor. Raoul was still lurking, though I had no idea why. Likely, he was wondering the same thing about me. Reza served brandy all around.

Christine arrived shortly with Masson fresh from his bath. When he came to me for a cuddle, he smelled clean and wonderful. I squeezed him tight, gave him a big kiss, and smiled as hard as I could. When Christine took him to put him down for the night, I felt as if my lungs were being torn from my chest. It felt like love inside me. I marveled at how quickly the boy had gotten under my skin.

After several minutes, I excused myself. I was about to climb the stairs when Raoul called out.

"Wait a minute," he demanded, approaching too closely. "I didn't drag you back here so you could re-ingratiate yourself and break her heart again. You nearly killed her last time."

"Things have a way of spinning out of control when we insinuate ourselves into situations which don't concern us," I observed.

He came nose to nose with me. "It doesn't concern me? Where have _you _been this past year?"

"Aren't we getting a bit ahead of ourselves?" I asked. "I have no indication from Christine that I have re-ingratiated myself."

"Well, I have, and I want you to know I don't like it!" he shoved me backward onto the stairs. I regained my footing and shoved him, rattling the umbrella stand.

He got to his feet, removing his coat. I nodded and did the same.

"_Stop it!_" Christine demanded. She descended the staircase swiftly. Raoul and I dropped our fists like guilty nine-year-olds.

"Look at you, puffed up like a couple of roosters!" she hissed. "I don't know how you can stand yourselves with all this ridiculous posturing and snorting! I don't belong to you!" _Crrrack!_ A bright pink handprint glowed on Raoul's cheek.

"Or you!" _Crrrack!_ Ouch. It was a glimpse of the old Christine. "I should just let you beat each other senseless! Raoul, go home."

"Where is _he_ sleeping?"

"It's none of your business! What do you take me for, anyway? Go home!" she snapped.

She turned quickly enough to see me tossing a smug look at Raoul. "Erik! Act your age!"

"Raoul, wait. Take Anci," I suggested. I know; I have a lot of nerve.

"WHAT!"

"Surely you need another servant," I weaseled.

"I'll thank you to remove your own refuse, Sir." He huffed. "Goodnight, Christine."

Christine turned to me. "That's not particularly stylish, is it; trying to foist your granddaughter off on Raoul?"

"Christine! She could _not_ be my granddaughter!"

"She could if you'd gotten an earlier start. Really, Erik…" she made an indescribable face.

"Really, Christine," I echoed. "Does she look fifteen to you? Honestly?"

"Maybe, maybe not; but I can promise you that I'd find out for certain before I--"

"Yes, yes, yes." I silenced her, embarrassed.

"Erik, I can't just make the decisions I'd like anymore." She said suddenly. She was looking at her hands, as if she couldn't bear to speak to my face. I was about to cry; I felt it. "I have to think of Masson, all the time now," she continued.

I reached for her hand. "Christine—"

"Don't touch me," she said softly. "Erik, if it was just me, even after all this, your pull on me is so strong…" She sighed and turned her back to me. "You've been a lousy fiancé, but I can't allow you to be a lousy father."

"Christine, I love that baby so much," I confessed.

"You love me too," she reminded me.

I nodded, though she couldn't see it. "So, it's no, then? Or maybe?"

Christine hid her face in her hands and cried silently. How I wanted to embrace and comfort her, though I understood why I couldn't.

"I don't know," she whimpered. "Maybe I just haven't the strength to make you leave."

"Let me be with Masson until you know for sure. Let me stay?"

Christine looked up at me with frightened eyes full of pain. "You know you can charm me anytime you like," she pointed out.

"I won't. I promise—and I know I've no right to ask you to believe me."

"I don't know when I'll know," she worried.

"I understand; I'll wait."

"You room is the same; your piano, your coffin, your books."

"Thank you."

"Do you think your little bed warmer will stay with me until we find a place for her?"

"She can't stay here," I insisted.

"Erik, I know; but where can we send her tonight?"

Christine and Anci bedding down together were too much to contemplate; Darius generously offered his bed, and he stayed in the parlor. My first order of business in the morning was to find that girl a place.


	35. Chapter 35

So Anci was duly settled in a position with a doctor and his young family. Christine and I spent a week in uneasy détente, Raoul circling at a barely respectful distance and glaring daggers at me. Masson accepted me as if I'd always been there, and in a matter of days I had a chubby blonde shadow.

I built a peg box for Masson's birthday. Square, round and triangular pegs and a big mallet to pound them with. I never saw a little boy that didn't like to pound things, and my chubby cub was no exception. Our ears suffered for it, and I was not the most popular fellow among the adults, even though it endeared me to my son.

I gave Christine a bouquet; she didn't understand.

"What is this?"

"Who deserves a gift today more than you?"

"Erik," she blushed, raising the flowers to her nose happily. "But I have my gift!" She laughed and pirouetted like a child. "Look." She looked over at her fat baby, banging and singing merrily.

I couldn't speak. Seeing Christine carefree and girlish again, knowing I was the one who'd taken her joy away. How could I make it up to her?

"Bbbbtttthhhhllll, bbbbtttthhhhllll."

"Darius happened to see Anci the other day," Reza sipped his coffee.

"Oh, really. Mm, thank you." Masson was sharing his hot cereal with me.

"Bbbbtttthhhhllll."

"Erik, what _is_ that he's doing?"

"We must blow on the cereal or it's too hot, Reza. Don't you know anything?"

"HOT sirril! Bbbbtttthhhhllll!"

"Oh; silly me. Yes; she says she is settling nicely and everyone is very kind."

"Excellent; let's hope that sordid chapter is closed. Yes, but what about another bite for Masson? One more?"

"Bbbbtttthhhhllll."

"It's easy to see why she was so fond of you; you're marvelous with children."

"I am a man of many talents, indeed." I took a napkin to Masson's hands. He was reluctant to release the spoon.

"I daresay you could have been a governess," Reza mused.

"Yes, but when I saw the uniform I was done in. The skirt is simply not flattering for a big fellow like me."

"You fop," he laughed aloud at his own feeble attempt at humor.

"Daroga, I believe you are the funniest man you know. Well, young man, I'd say we've done quite enough damage. Darius? Here, thank you." I handed over the bowl. Masson was performing a percussion solo. "Do you suppose he'll play tympani, Reza?"

"He is fond of banging, isn't he?"

"But he has a wicked pair of lungs; perhaps a tenor." I attempted to unglue my fingers. "Now Papa is fit for a bath."

"NO baff!"

"No, no bath for Masson, bath for Papa; look at messy Papa."

"NO baff!"

"Yes, I hear you, Son. It's the strangest thing, Reza: he shrieks like he's being beaten when he has to have a bath, but once he's there with his twenty five pounds of toys, you can't get him out. The child turns blue and wrinkly," I marveled.

"He looks like you, then."

"I suppose I walked into that one."

Masson had been still long enough. Something caught his eye in the back garden; he hit the floor and was off. My heart resumed its new usual place: in my throat. He was not stairs-proficient when he was in a hurry. Fortunately, the coffee had an effect, and I was equal to the challenge.

We had to take a walk. Never mind that he was in his nightshirt and I looked like an unmade bed.

"Masson, let's go inside and get shoes. Mama wants you to have shoes, and clothes for that matter. Come, we'll come right back out—"

I would almost swear that he feinted in my direction to throw me off guard before he did the fat baby escape. I caught him quickly enough, but he'd been headed in the general direction of the street.

"Son, we don't go in the street; we could be hurt."

"Ow."

"That's right; big ow. And that would make Mama very unhappy."

He said something about Mama. I was still at about ten percent comprehension. Christine's skill at understanding him was amazing.

The day was shaping up poorly. My mask was plastered with oatmeal goo and Christine was in the kitchen when we got inside.

"Erik—" she rescued her naked baby from my errant arms.

"We were just coming in for shoes and clothing. He took it upon himself to go out. We've already had breakfast," I added, hoping there would be a slight indulgence which accrued to that.

"So I see," she was smirking, but had the good grace not to laugh in my face.

When I reappeared ready for our walk, Christine asked, "Do you mind if I join you? "

"I hope I never mind escorting a beautiful woman along the streets of Paris," I purred, holding the door for her and Masson.

"Behave yourself, you shameless flatterer!" Reza called after us.

Christine smiled. "He is so happy to have you back." She let Masson down to run and took my arm. It thrilled me.

"I'm glad; but I'd prefer that you were happy to have me back," I confessed.

"I like having you back, too."

"I wasn't fishing."

"I know you weren't; I do like having you back. I like hearing your voice, and seeing you—" Christine blushed and stopped herself.

"Pray go on," I smiled. "I'm soaking this up. Masson," I called, extending my hand. He was rather far afield. He raced back and slammed into us; nearly knocking adults off their feet is great fun. "You might have called him Goliath," I suggested, lifting him like a sack of sand. Masson chuckled; Christine even giggled. I loved to hear her laugh.

"You have some color in your cheeks," I noted. "And your appetite seems good."

She nodded agreement. "I'm feeling well."

"Perhaps we'll fatten up this little piglet yet, hm?" I teased. She giggled again, like a little girl.

Suddenly, her eyes lost their glimmer. What had I said wrong?

"What you see here, whatever figure I have," she shook her head, embarrassed. "It's just…the baby."

"Excuse me for saying so, Christine, but I remember…how lovely you look."

Again she shook her head, denying what she heard. "Still, no matter what I eat, I'll never—" she clapped her lips shut, as if she had said too much.

"What is it? You'll never what?" I was hobbling along like a crippled soldier. The baby was standing on my foot and clinging to my leg. His pride at discovering this new mode of transportation was obvious.

"I'll never be as lovely as Anci." She blushed again, bright scarlet.

"Christine, please tell me you're not worried about Anci."

"I would do anything to have a body like hers."

"You are more beautiful to me right now than she ever was." The passion in my voice startled me.

"No." She turned away.

"Yes, Christine. Yes! Always."

She began walking again, and I could see by the way she held her shoulders that she'd finished with that topic of conversation.

"Would you like to see the Opera?" she asked.

"I would love to see it; is it under roof already?"

Suddenly she withered. "No, perhaps we shouldn't."

"Christine, what is it? Are you ill?"

"So many memories," she worried. Masson frowned, sensing maternal distress, and demanded to be picked up. She bounced and patted him over her shoulder, as if he was the fretful one.

"If it distresses you, we needn't go. Let's walk the other way, come."

"It doesn't distress me; I just…can't go there with you. I'm not ready to be swept away yet," she confessed. Masson wriggled and she set him down.

"Christine, I'm not laughing at you, but how swept away could we be on the street--with a baby?"

"I guess you've forgotten," she murmured.

"I've not forgotten anything," I growled. I slipped my hand around her waist and pulled her tight against me. She gasped and placed her hand against my chest. It was a lightning bolt of a different sort, from her fingers into my heart. My lips engulfed Christine's; it was intoxicating to feel her surrender to me, but I honored my promise and released her even as I felt her melting. She blinked, confused and breathless, but relieved. "I haven't forgotten," I repeated. I kissed her again, but gently.

In the next instant I felt a wicked thump on my leg.

"PAPA NO!" Two more genuinely painful thumps. "NO MAMA!" Masson grabbed two great handfuls of Christine's skirt and threw all his weight into trying to drag her away from me. He glared at us with clenched fists and a furiously furrowed brow. His lip jutted forward in a colossal pout. It might have been comical, but he was deadly serious. He dashed at me, pushing and shoving. "GO! NO MAMA!"

"Masson, stop!" Christine cried, scooping him into her arms. "It's alright. Mama's here; Papa's here."

"Papa go. Bad Papa." He clutched her breast protectively.

"No, Masson. Don't say that!"

I could see that his reaction distressed her, but I didn't think any good would come of her scolding him for his jealousy. I understood perfectly: he liked me fine, but she was _his_ Mama.

"Christine, let him be. It's natural he should want you all to himself."

"Erik, he's just like you with Raoul! I don't want him to be like this!" Christine appeared well on her way to hysteria. I searched my addled brain for any and all platitudes.

"It's temporary. Perhaps he senses your ambivalence. I shouldn't have done it anyway," I shrugged.

"It's alright. You've been a gentleman."

The little lion seemed to be pacified. He rested against Christine's breast and sucked on his fingers as she stroked his curls. He looked ready to fall asleep; I suppose the trauma of Mama being kissed exhausted him emotionally.


	36. Chapter 36

"Hot and cold. One minute she's smiling and flirting, the next she's tearful and sending me away. You know, I'm not permitted to touch her."

"And do you really think you should be, after the way you left?" Gaston wondered.

"Don't be so gentle with him, Gaston. Tell him what you really think," Reza grinned.

"What? How long should I follow her around all apologetic?"

"Erik, I know you didn't have the benefit of…a traditional upbringing, but…you should know that most women would have disemboweled you, leaving them embarrassed and unwed. You're truly blessed to still have all the parts you were born with."

"I _said_ I was sorry. I've said I'm sorry a thousand different ways! Nearly every day!" I poured another brandy.

"Did you ever see a cat kicked by a man, Erik?"

"Reza, bite your tongue!" I went livid. I love and pity animals; I can't help it. And children. Perhaps it is my way of defending the wounded innocent that was little Erik, but I can't bear to see them mistreated.

"But wait; if you took a cat like that, and fed it and loved it, how long do you think it would take for it to forget the mistreatment? Would it just run right up to you the first time you laid the food out? Would it let you take it into your arms and stroke it? Even if it wanted to, and brushed against your legs, could it bring itself to forget so quickly?"

"Stop it, Reza, by god! I take your point. You're a sick bastard, comparing me to a cat kicker."

"Right; I am a sick bastard. And what were you doing for your bread in Budapest, selling your luscious body?"

"And a testy bastard besides. I told you, you should have taken Anci's measure. You're a backed-up, cranky old man."

"I'm going to poison him, Gaston. You heard it here first."

I thought a moment about this idea of Christine as an abused kitten. "What should I do?"

"Have you asked the lady?" Gaston wondered.

"No," I was nonplussed.

"Well, there you have it. She has a mind; hasn't she been trying to tell you? Ask her how you can prove to her that you won't leave again."

"It's not so simple. She doesn't know what she wants. Which I understand--but how long? I've married my left hand," I grumbled.

"If that's all you're worried about, there's plenty of remedy for that in a city like Paris."

"That's not all I'm worried about. But seeing her every day takes its toll, doesn't it?"

"Poor Erik. You might have thought of that before you ran off."

"Thank you, Reza; that's constructive. Hindsight being what it is, I've already come to that conclusion without your august assistance."

The parlor door rattled as if to crash off its hinges.

Fat Gaston went airborne. "God in heaven!" he gasped.

"It's my little man, Gaston! Wait until you see this beast!" I threw the door open. Masson and I were back to best friends so long as I kept my filthy hands off Mama.

"GRRRRR!"

"Oh, no! Run for your lives, gentlemen! It's a bear!"

It is difficult for a baby to giggle and growl simultaneously.

"Let me see…what have I here to catch a bear with? Ahhh…" I crouched before the breathless bear. Claws hovering in the air, he waited for whatever might come from the waistcoat pocket. "_Chocolate!_" I whispered.

What a beautiful baby; his eyes so wide, as if the candy itself was magical.

"_Shok-lit. Ssshhh!_" Strong, fat fingers pried the coin from my hand.

"Yes, ssshhh. Mama doesn't approve," I called aside to Gaston. "She says he thinks I'm a candy shop on legs." My boy sat next to me on the sofa and worked at the wrapping, frowning.

"Here, let Papa help."

"Papa hell." Reza chuckled at that, delighted.

"Yes, that too. There you are, Bear."

"Fank." Masson set to; soon chocolate drool was flowing like wine at a gypsy wedding.

"You're welcome."

"Erik, he is a lovely child; are you absolutely certain he's yours?"

"Shut up, Gaston. He has my eyes and my foul temper; he worries me already."

Gaston shot a glance at Reza. My Persian friend nodded confirmation.

"Ah, here you are!" Christine appeared at the door.

"_Shit_." I was caught.

"_Sssit_."

"Masson, ssshhh." God help me if he took after my speech.

"_Ssshhh_."

"Unh! The smoke is thick as fog in here!" She spied the chocolaty-drooling bear. "Oh, no, Erik. Not again."

"There was a bear, Mama. The only thing between these gentlemen and certain death was me and my chocolate!"

"GRRRRR!"

"There, you see. You've angered him again, and here I am, out of chocolate."

"Oh, for heavens' sake. Two infants; not one," she fussed, taking her handkerchief to Masson's face and hands. But she was smiling.

"A beautiful child, Comtesse," Gaston chimed.

"I'm afraid his beauty will be his downfall, M Leroux. His father seems incapable of anything but spoiling him."

"His father would happily spoil his beautiful mother as well," I murmured.

Christine blushed.

"There he goes, making love in company again," Reza remarked.

"Tell him to stop, Reza, it embarrasses me." She plucked the baby from the sofa. "We're off for a b-a-t-h."

I finished my brandy with my friends and bade them goodnight. It sounded quiet upstairs; clearly the bath was over and Christine was trying to settle Masson for sleep. I climbed the stairs to the room I had once shared with Christine. I did not want to knock in case Masson was drifting off, but it felt wrong to just walk in. I decided to crack the door and whisper her name.

"Yes, come in," she replied softly.

The room had been changed to accommodate the baby's presence. Christine nursed him sitting in a cozy rocker, and there was a crib beside the bed. I leaned against the wall and studied Christine and her baby. She wore a peaceful, drowsy smile. She was unbelievably beautiful to me as a mother.

Already, Masson was all gone. Christine slipped him into his crib and tucked him in. We watched him sleep in comfortable silence.

"He is amazing, Christine."

"You're surprised by how he's taken you in, aren't you?" she smiled knowingly.

"I confess I am."

She shook her head. "I knew you would be an indulgent, doting mess of a father."

"Oh?"

"Yes; because you have a child's heart."

"A child's heart? An assassin's mind; a monster's form. Quite a package."

"I'm not certain about your assessment, but I agree with your conclusion," she admitted.

"Christine, this is not a skillful segue, but I wonder if there is anything I can do to prove myself to you?" I hoped it did not sound as awkward as I felt.

She considered a long time. She took my hand and brought me to sit on the bed with her.

"I'm sorry," she sighed. "I can't really think of anything just now." Astonishingly, she began unbuttoning my shirt. Just as I found breath to speak, she bit my lower lip.

"Ssshhh." She draped my shirt over the near side of Masson's crib, shielding his view from things he'd certainly disapprove of. Before she joined me, she removed all but her chemise and hose. I took the hint and shucked my clothing as well. As she loosened her hair, I ran my hands up and down her torso. She pushed me back and fell with me. I wanted to kiss her, touch her, but she refused me. She guided my hands to her hips. "Later; I want to ride," she whispered, lowering herself eagerly onto me. She was amazingly wanton. I would never have believed it was my beloved little angel. She found her release quickly, crumpled happily onto my chest and permitted me to finish as I pleased.

Christine wrung two further couplings from me before she permitted me to sleep. I was so damned proud of myself I might have stayed up all night buying myself drinks, except I was done in. Naturally, in true Erik style, I had to spend a few minutes before I dropped off worrying about being able to keep up with Christine.


	37. Chapter 37

"Wake up…Erik…" Christine was fiddling with me in a delicious way.

"I'm awake…I'm just pretending to be asleep so you'll keep doing that."

"Come over here and do your duty before the Bear wakes up."

I was just throwing a leg over when we were alarmed by an ominous rattling, followed by a genuinely blood-curdling scream. It was actually painful to me; I ducked and covered my ears. Christine shot from the bed as she slipped her chemise on. She scooped up the wailing killjoy and attempted to settle him in the bed with her. No good; he was red-faced, flailing, kicking; utterly out of control.

As she tried to settle him, I located my trousers. When I tried to get back into bed, Masson want insane. He was screaming and crying so hard that I didn't see how it was possible for him to breathe, and his kicking was most definitely aimed at me.

"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!"

He tried to escape Christine's grasp to lunge at me. I had the distinct impression that he intended to put his fat little paws around my neck and strangle me.

"Erik, I can't hold him! Masson, stop!"

"Give him to me then, give him over." I hauled him out of Christine's arms; easier said than done.

"MAMAAA! MAMAAA!" He landed a lucky pop to my nose. Even with the mask it was unpleasant.

"Stop, Masson."

"GO!"

I did not have a cold bucket of water to dunk him into, so I popped three brisk swats onto his wet-nappy bottom and released him on the floor.

"Don't go after him right away, Christine; just let him compose himself a bit."

I sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. She was a mess. I was too, in a different sort of way. Neither of us had ever seen a performance like that before. He scrambled under his crib and sat blaspheming me and Christine as well, I think. There was a timid knock on the door.

"Christine? Is everything alright, dear?" It was Reza. Of course, it sounded as though the child was being tortured and murdered.

I saw no point in discretion. I looked to Christine for agreement and opened the door. Reza and Darius stood in their dressing gowns, each turning several colors.

"I believe my presence should serve to explain the drama, gentlemen. Masson woke up and saw that Mama was not alone, and went hysterical. He has just had what I believe was his first spanking."

While I was occupied at the door, Masson availed himself of the opportunity to scramble onto the bed and importune Mama for my removal. He pulled at Christine's chemise and fished his little hand inside. He had a most unnerving habit: if he couldn't actually suck, he had at least to have his paw on Christine's breast whenever he was upset. Not that I don't understand; I might've been as mild as a lamb if I had access to a tasty pink nipple whenever life disappointed me. It seemed to me, however, that it was about time he gave the things up. Christine had been his beverage service for so long that she no longer had any sense of how bizarre it was to have a baby giant fishing inside her dress whenever the fancy struck him.

"If everything is alright, then…"

"Yes, just fine. Thank you, gentlemen." I turned back toward the bed; Masson glared at me before turning back to his snack.

"Masson, Papa is going to sit back on the bed with you and Mama now," I said evenly. There was so much pain in Christine's eyes. I wanted to embrace her, but that was out of the question at the moment.

"NO! GO!"

"Masson, no. Papa's allowed to come here," Christine soothed.

He grumbled something like, "To the devil with him, Mam." I swear.

"Let me get you some coffee, hm?"

"Thank you," she smiled, but her eyes were worried. I was worried too. If she got it in her head that she had to make a choice, I knew which golden-eyed devil would win.

Descending to the kitchen, I realized that the fat little piss-pot had ruined what should have been one of the best mornings of my life; I was in a crap mood. We needed an understanding between us, quick. I had only just gotten rid of another baby that fancied he had rights to my woman.

Reza began apologizing for the intrusion as soon as I appeared.

"Nonsense; you had no way of knowing."

"Is Masson alright?"

"No, he's not alright; he's bloody awful. He's a tyrant." I slammed two cups on the counter and Darius cringed. He's a bit of a nelly about his kitchen.

"He's an infant, Erik."

"I know," I ran a hand through my hair in exasperation. "It's going hard with him, and Christine isn't up to it. It's all over her face; she's a quick minute away from telling me to get out."

"I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."

"The hell it isn't. I love the little git, Reza, but…you hear that? He's wailing up there again."

"Now, don't get all lathered up. For all you know, you'll take Christine her coffee, and you and he will be fast friends again."

"I wish you could see him fish down her blouse and glare daggers at me."

"As if you wouldn't do the same thing if you could."

"That's another story, she's my woman."

"I see. She's his mother."

"Shit."

When I appeared with the coffee, Christine was overcome.

"He's been crying for you since you left!"

"PAA-PAAA!" Masson took a bruising grip on my neck and told me all about how dreadful he felt. To say he needed a new nappy was a gross understatement. Christine was weeping into her hand.

"Christine?"

"Erik, I don't know if—"

"No no no. Don't. He's a child, Christine. As I see it, most all children have to learn they're not the only person Mother loves sooner or later; it won't kill him."

"But I don't know if I can take it. I think you should go back to your room."

"_What?_"

Masson shrieked anew at my outburst.

"Erik, stop, please—"

"Go back to my room? What, you're finished with me now?"

Masson yowled again, forcing me to raise my voice to be heard over him, which made him yell louder still.

"If you must know; yes. I am…actually." Christine replied nervously.

"WHAT?"

"I don't feel I really…want a man around all the time. I…I've gotten to like being on my own." She was picking invisible lint off the sheet so she wouldn't have to look at me.

"What the hell—"

"_Language!_" she hissed.

"What was that last night if you don't want a man around?"

"Mama!" I was hollering too much; Masson went back to his breasts.

"I said _all the time_, Erik. Anyway, you know perfectly well what that was last night."

Suddenly I was an inarticulate moron. All I could manage was "WHAT?"

"What do you mean, what?" She began changing Masson's nappy. "Our separation worked no hardship on you!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Anci, what else? Surely you haven't forgotten her so soon!"

"Christ, leave off! What's that got to do—"

"Everything, that's what! Or do you suppose you're the only one who has needs?" she replied primly.

"Wait." I sank into the rocker, unprepared to believe what I thought I was hearing. "Wait. Christine, are you really saying…that I should go?"

"No. I'm saying that I…I want to…have separate rooms."

"Separate _rooms_? Because of _him_?" I demanded. He was clean and dry, so he set up howling again, just to add to the cozy familial atmosphere.

"Not because of him. Because of me."

"And you'll just slip a note under my door when you need a little friction, is that it?"

"Leave it to you to reduce it to that," she huffed.

"I'm not reducing it to anything. You're the one dismissing me! I was making love last night, Christine; what were you doing?"

"Erik, you know I love you—or you should do. I just need to keep a bit of myself for myself. I don't know how to make you understand," she sighed.

"Well, I don't understand. I don't keep any bit of myself from you—"

"_Then how did you just up and leave me with your baby?_" she shrieked. "_How long did it take you to find comfort somewhere else?_ _Why did you have to be dragged back to us?_" She was red-faced and wild-eyed; she looked like a demon.

Frightened, Masson crawled slightly away from her before he collapsed on the bed, moaning. I rushed over and collected him. He patted my bare chest weakly, searching for some comfort where there was none to be had.

"Christine, for god's sake, stop. Look at him, won't you?" I pleaded. "I'll go if you want; just stop."

She was still trembling with anger when she took him from me.

"_Mama, Mama,_" the baby whispered. She kissed his forehead.

"I don't want you to leave, Erik," she insisted.

"No; you want me to stay nearby. I got that," I replied bitterly. "Well, you know where I'll be if you need anything."


	38. Chapter 38

I got dressed and took myself to the Opera. It seemed a good idea at the time; I thought I wanted to see it. It was coming along beautifully inside, but walking those halls and remembering Christine in every niche and corner of the building did nothing for my wounded heart.

I did not understand at all what was going on inside Christine's mind. I couldn't believe that I'd felt so incredibly connected, so positively where I belonged, and that I'd felt that way alone. I couldn't believe I was just a way to scratch an itch. It had to be about the boy. It had to be that she couldn't take his jealousy. I resolved to be patient; what choice was there?

I took the long way around so I could pass by the chocolate shop. I needed more coins for Masson, and I picked up some of the best champagne truffles in Paris for Christine. I laid them outside the door and went back down to the parlor. Reza was out and it was Darius' afternoon off, so I wandered into the kitchen to see if I could make tea without burning the house down.

Darius hides the pickled onions from me, so I saw an opportunity. I sniffed around and located about half a jar of onions and some delightful peasant bread. I loaded up my tray and headed to the back garden for a minor debauch in the shade. Presently I had a full tummy and decided a nap was in order.

I was just turning up the stairs when I heard a masculine voice in the parlor; it was a fair assumption that it was Reza. I moved across the hall to join him, but I realized at the last moment that it wasn't Reza. It was Raoul; what a cunning bastard he'd become. Pleading his case with Christine, he wasn't even debating that he was a bore. He was telling her that she was a woman now, and she had to put aside her girlish desire for the thrills an unpredictable lover provided. She needed to think of the boy now; she needed to find a steady, dependable father for her son.

Not surprisingly, I suddenly felt ill. I couldn't catch my breath, as if someone was sitting on my chest. I didn't want to hear what Christine had to say in reply; I took myself upstairs.

I wanted my baby. I slipped into Christine's room and plucked him from his crib. He only stirred a little but settled quickly when I stretched out on the bed with him. My chest still hurt. I wondered why I was suddenly feeling a broken heart; maybe it was the realization that if she went with Raoul, I'd lose my little man, too. I stroked his downy head and indulged myself in a fine cleansing cry.

Masson woke me up. He had taken all his clothing off and was playing with his feet and singing. I don't know what he was singing, but I tried to sing along with him. He was only a year old; how sophisticated could the melody be? He seemed to appreciate my efforts.

"Erik?" Christine was staring at us in disbelief.

"Mama!"

"Why is he naked?"

"Because he discovered he could take his clothing off, and he's proud of himself!"

"Oh." She had a very strange look on her face. Raoul, I reckoned.

"I'm sorry, Christine; I just wanted to see him. He didn't wake up, and we just had a little nap together."

"It's alright, Erik. He's your son."

"You're worried I'll be a poor influence on him. He's already inherited my temper. Isn't that right?"

"No; that's not right at all; why do you say that?"

"Because you look strange. Unhappy."

She shrugged. Masson fished in my waistcoat.

"_Papa. Shok-lit_," he whispered, giving me the big baby eyes.

"Here, you little fiend. Get me in the soup with Mama, as if I can't do it well enough for myself." I handed His Nakedness the unwrapped coin.

"Fank."

"You're welcome."

Christine scooped Masson into his crib and fetched his peg box. He set immediately to banging and singing.

"Mama will be right back, Masson." She turned to me. "May I see you outside, please?"

"Certainly." Lovely; what now? The get out and make room for Raoul speech?

It took an eternity for her to close the door behind her and face me. I thought I was prepared for anything, but not for a kiss—which was what I got.

"Christine…" I didn't even know what my question was. She rested her forehead against my chin.

"I don't want to talk about it. Don't press me; just do what I ask. I know it sounds selfish and unreasonable," she admitted. She burrowed against my aching chest, just as she used to do when she was my little girl.

"Whatever you want, Angel."

The banging stopped and we drew apart in anticipation of His Majesty's summons.

"I think we're adjusting rather well--to indentured servitude, at least," I smiled.

"MAMA! MAA-MAA!"

She squeezed my hand and returned to Masson.

"Erik!" Reza was jubilant. "The most marvelous news! A Persian coffee house is opened—a real one—right here in Paris! I know the boy's family!"

"Really."

"Yes, I ran into one of my countrymen this afternoon, and he told me about it! It's not open but a couple of days—think of it, Erik! _Real_ coffee, hookahs, good music and dancing girls!" He clapped his hands gleefully.

"Reza, you're transported," I grinned.

"I can't wait to tell Darius—I can't imagine this bit of news escaped him!" Darius had his finger firmly on the pulse of the Persian expatriate community in Paris. It was odd that he'd not mentioned an event of this magnitude.

"I've got to dress; I've sent word to Gaston to be here by half-eight."

"I don't know about me tonight, Reza; I'm tired." I really did feel all in.

"Erik!" Reza's disappointment was palpable. "Remember!"

I did. It beat any occidental gentlemen's club I'd occasioned before or since. Shame about Persia; with a few notable exceptions, I'd quite liked it. The more I thought on it, the more I agreed that it would be delightful place to become a regular patron of. "Alright; you've twisted my arm."

Reza slapped my shoulder and giggled like Masson. He ran off to become presentable while I wandered back to the kitchen, peckish again for some reason.

"Oh, hello Darius. Sorry about the onions," I offered sheepishly.

"It's alright, Mr Erik."

"Reza says there's a Persian coffee house opening; we're off to it tonight. It's a wonder you hadn't heard about it."

"Yes; strange that I missed it," he agreed.

"Anyway," I brightened, "you're welcome to join us."

"Thank you, Mr Erik; another time. May I get you something?"

Poor Darius. He set me up with turnips and chicken just to stop me digging around in his pantry. I opened a Merlot and importuned him for more peasant bread.

"This is delightful, Darius; if only there were more onions…"

"Mr Erik, you'll be fat as Mr Gaston soon. No more onions."

We had an exquisite time at the coffee house. We began Gaston's education into the fine points of oriental dance; he proved an avid pupil as the girls were lovely. When we arrived home, it was after two, but I was buzzing merrily from too much coffee. I was still buzzing and reading when Christine knocked.

"Good morning," I smiled.

She blinked her eyes in confusion at my evening clothes.

"PAPA!" Masson threw himself at me. "Ooooohh." He crinkled his nose at the sweet smoke smell which clung to me.

"I didn't realize you…were out last night."

"Yes, likely you'll hear all about it, Reza's ecstatic. They've opened a genuine Persian coffee house; we went with Gaston last night. It was just like being there again, delightful."

"What happens at Persian coffee houses?"

"Well, there's no alcohol--one drinks wicked strong coffee and smokes fruity tobacco through a water pipe. There's music and dancing girls—"

"Oh," Christine replied glumly.

"OH!" Masson echoed. He'd never been in my room before, and he was itching to get down and into things.

"Christine, you're not going to fret over dancing girls now are you?"

"No…should I?"

"No," I chuckled. "I'm not a Persian woman's…ideal, shall we say. You've nothing to fret about. Would you like to come with us sometime?"

"Oh good heavens! No!" She turned colors.

"NO!" said the Bear.

"It's alright; there were women there last night, Darling—with their husbands, of course."

"Papa 'son down." I set him down; he went straight for my coffin and climbed in. "Boat."

Christine was mortified. "Erik, get him out."

"He doesn't know what it is, Christine."

"It's morbid; get him out."

I lifted him out; he promptly climbed back in. He knew his own mind. Good; at least one of the three of us did. "Of course, you didn't always think it was morbid..." I reminded her.

"Hush!" She wasn't as horrified as she made out to be. "Later," she whispered.

"Promise?" I stole a quick glance at Masson; he was perusing my book, so I ventured a nip and a cuddle.

"Yes, now let me be or he'll have a fit."


	39. Chapter 39

Christine, Masson and I settled into a routine of sorts. If I awoke before Masson and put him between Christine and me in bed he would wake smiling, and we all had a chance at a good day. If not, he would squawk and Christine would chew her lip and fret that I had to go. Most nights, I stayed with her and we abused each other for several hours before we fell asleep, sweaty and blissfully entangled.

We passed a couple of peaceful weeks, until we took Gaston's Jeanne and Christine to the Persian coffee house. Jeanne rather enjoyed herself, I think; she appreciated the dancing girls' costumes and wondered how they were able to move as they did. Jeanne and Gaston made a fine couple; they were both jolly and fun-loving. My darling, on the other hand, was so polite I got frostbite; I knew I was for it when we got home.

We had to argue in whispers, since Masson was sleeping as we undressed.

"Shall I go next door, Christine? You look quite displeased."

"How shall I look? It was nothing but an erotic display," she groused.

"Oh for heaven's sake, can't you appreciate the artistry of it?"

"Is that what you were doing? Is that what all those men were doing with their tongues hanging out like so many hungry dogs?" she demanded.

"Funny; I didn't notice any tongues hanging out," I replied mildly.

"I'm sure you didn't."

"Right, good night, Darling. I'll just go next door."

"I see; no point in staying if nothing juicy is forthcoming," she snapped.

"That's not it at all, Christine. I just don't see that we're accomplishing anything sniping away at each other. You're all on about your women's rights again, and I find I'm not in the mood."

"Reza, what the devil are you doing? Where is Darius?"

"He asked for the whole day; I thought we could muddle through…"

"Yes, but don't try cooking, Man. Just have a croissant with jam and have done with it. What does he need a whole day off for?"

Reza chuckled. "He's a man like the rest of us. What's got you so irritable today?"

"Oh, the usual."

"What have you done this time?" He sat down with coffee for us both.

"Thanks. Nothing. Why can't Christine be more like Jeanne? Jeanne had a marvelous time last night; I'll wager she doesn't make Gaston feel guilty for enjoying the sight of a pretty girl."

"Probably not; Jeanne is not Christine. You are not Gaston."

"What the devil is that supposed to mean? I tell you, it's not me, Daroga. She's not the girl I fell in love with. All we do is argue anymore."

"Of course she's not the girl you fell in love with. Life goes on; people change. She's a mother now, and has grown into a remarkable woman. More woman that I'd dream of taking on," Reza admitted. "Are you the man she fell in love with, Erik?"

"Of course I am. What have I got to go changing for?" I demanded indignantly.

"Oh, I don't know. Lessons learned, I suppose," Reza suggested mildly. "Silly me."

"Hmph. You know, I never once argued with Anci; not once."

"I don't believe you're actually comparing Christine and Anci, and I love you, Erik, so I'll just pretend I didn't hear it," he smiled.

Christine and Masson descended upon us then; Masson and I had a walk and goose- and duck-feeding planned for the morning so we made a quick job of breakfast and departed with our bag of breadcrumbs.

We found several mud puddles to splash in, and held foot races from one to the next. The winner got to stomp in the puddle and splash the loser. We saw some bigger children flying kites, and agreed we'd have to have a go at that another day. We were chased by an especially cantankerous gander, patted several dogs and had some fruit ice; all thrilling stuff. On the way home, Masson passed out on my shoulder, so I slipped straight upstairs with him and laid him down.

A wash-up was definitely in order, but I wanted to let Christine know we were home first. Descending the stairs, I spotted her and Prince Charming at the door. He held both her hands in his and kissed them; I didn't hear all of what he said, but I heard 'love', and I went mad. I roared and flew down the stairs; Christine darted away and squealed. I hit Raoul and we both hit the floor. I heard his nose pop when I hit it; he was clever enough to work on the ribs he'd broken in Hungary. I've had to beat people to a pulp more time than he has, however, and after a bit of general head bashing I managed to get my hand around his precious pink neck.

I was dimly aware of Christine screaming at us as I proceeded to crush Raoul's windpipe, but when we were doused with cold water it startled me enough that I loosened my grip. Reza grabbed me and dragged me off as Christine tended to coughing, sputtering, and, sadly, still-alive Raoul.

I went upstairs to have a look at my bloody mouth. Reza followed along, berating me.

"Have you taken leave of your senses? What—"

"Reza, are you really going to follow me into the bathroom?"

"YES!"

"Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you; I'm having a bath."

"You can't just choke the life out of someone in my front hall! Erik, can't you have a little gratitude for the care he gave her when—"

"I most certainly cannot. He was looking to give her more than gratitude, and would do right now if I turned my back long enough!"

"You're forgetting Christine in this; she has a mind and will of her own," he reminded me.

"And?"

"And, if she wants…to…take what he's giving, that's her privilege!"

"It was her privilege before my son was born; she's mine now, and I'll brook no resistance on it."

"You're a lunatic," he cried, throwing up his hands. "Christine—"

The lady herself burst into the bath at that very moment.

"If you'll excuse us, please, Reza," she murmured, glaring at me. Reza vanished like a specter.

"I'm bathing, Madame, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind a bit."

"Well, I do. I want a bit of time to myself," I echoed back at her.

"When I've had my say, you can have all the time you like. For your information, Erik, I was telling Raoul goodbye. He's been pressing his case since you returned, and I told him today that there is nothing for him here. I told him once again that I want to stay with my child's father, whom I love—_in spite of myself! _So, thank you for being an embarrassment to me once again. You _idiot!_"

"Christine, how—"

"And hurry up in the bath, my baby is filthy!" She slammed the door so that the entire room vibrated.

After supper, Masson and I banged on the piano until Christine came to get him for bed.

"Could we talk after he's asleep?" I ventured.

"Why? What is there to talk about? You have some compelling arguments as to why you were perfectly justified in trying to choke the life from Raoul. I don't want to hear it."

"I thought we might talk out of small person's earshot."

"Alright," she agreed grudgingly at last.

I read until Christine returned. As she settled into the chair, she sighed. "What is it you wish to discuss?"

"Christine, you still want to keep me at a distance, and yet you expect me to be unconcerned when I see you with Raoul. How was I supposed to know that you were telling him goodbye when you don't speak to me about anything? "

"You're here with me and Masson. We're together. Why in the world would you automatically assume that there is something between Raoul and me?"

"Why don't you send him away?" I worried.

"I did, today; did you expect me to do that the moment you returned?"

"No," I grumbled.

"I want you to apologize to Raoul."

"Tell him to apologize to me!"

"You're as bad as Masson," Christine shook her head. "How much reassurance does one man need?"

"How much reassurance do you have?"

. . . 

Reza was very strange at breakfast. He dragged me into the parlor with our coffee at the earliest opportuniy.

"What is this about, Daroga?"

"Um, it's about Darius," he waffled.

"What about Darius?"

"He wants to marry, and I want to keep him on."

"Of course you do," I agreed, relieved. I'd been imagining dreadful scenarios involving deportation or ill health.

"He wants to bring his bride here to live," Reza explained.

"Naturally, Daroga; I don't see the big drama."

"The big drama is he that fell head over heels in love with Anci the moment he saw her. That's where he's been spending all his time."

"_He wants to marry Anci?_" I squeaked.

"And bring her here."

"God help us all." To say I was stunned doesn't begin to approach it. "What does Anci say?"

"He tells me she's accepted his suit," Reza shrugged.

"Christ," I ran my hand through my hair. I thought fast. "I suppose we should move, anyway, Reza, and let you get back to normal. We've been here long enough."

"I don't want you to go; we're family."

"Right, and won't it be cozy when Anci moves in? You'd better take this up with Christine. I'm not about to."


	40. Chapter 40

I slipped Christine's shawl around her shoulders as she left Masson sleeping.

"What is this?" she glanced from me to Reza.

"Full moon; walk with me? I found a reliable nanny."

"At your service," the daroga beamed.

"Alright…"

We strolled silently for some time.

"I'd forgotten how you love Paris at night," Christine murmured finally.

"I love Paris at night with you," I corrected, kissing her temple. Her hair smelled lovely, as always. "Mmm; lilacs."

"Sometimes you are so easy to be with," she confessed.

"I am sorry about the other times."

After a few more moments of easy silence, her head found its way onto my shoulder. It was a perfect moment. I reflected that it was a shame Christine, Masson and I could not be all alone in the world.

"Did Reza tell you about Darius?" she asked.

Drat; so much for a perfect moment.

"He did."

"We can't leave Reza, Erik; he's family."

"I understand. I think Reza would say that Darius is family too."

"You don't suppose that Anci would try to use Darius to get to you?"

"Christine, I am walking in the moonlight with the girl of my dreams, in the most beautiful city in the world—"

"I know, I know," she squeezed my arm. "Just let's have done with this, and then we can enjoy our lovely, romantic walk."

"Alright…you were saying?"

"You don't—"

"Ah, yes. No; sadly, I don't believe that she's clever enough to think that way," I admitted.

"Neither do I. But Darius deserves a loving wife," Christine announced firmly.

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that if you were to see Anci again, you may be able to determine if she is sincere about Darius. If she is, then I don't see that we have a problem."

"You don't see that we have a problem?" I was nonplussed.

"I trust you."

"Why?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because I've not proved trustworthy! Have I?"

"Erik, we both know what Anci's attraction was. She's not really your sort of girl," Christine confided.

I glanced around quickly to see we were alone and pulled Christine into an embrace. "Really? And what is my sort of girl?" I wondered, nuzzling her neck.

"Stop, you fool!"

"You squirm, but you don't release me," I noted smugly.

"It's your own fault for being fiendishly irresistible."

"I am grateful you find me so." I caught her hand and drew her onward. "Come."

"Where? Where are we going?"

"You'll see," I promised. In a minute we were at a service entrance to the new opera house. I turned the knob and the door opened easily.

"Erik! How do you—"

"Ssshhh; this is my theatre, always." I led her inside.

"I can't see," Christine giggled nervously.

"Trust me. Listen." As I led her through the darkened halls and up the unfamiliar staircases, I whispered a fairy tale.

"_Once upon a time, there lived a princess so lovely that flowers blushed to bloom in her presence. Her voice was so exquisite that birds could not bear to sing as she passed by. So gentle and kind was this princess that all the woodland creatures, no matter how timid, would leave their hiding places to bask in her smile. _

_You might imagine that all was joy and light for our matchless princess, but such was not the case, for she had never known her mother, and her father had died when she was but a child. The king had been all in the world to her, and since his death, it appeared to her friends and courtiers that she had found no other confidante. The princess seemed unable to share her innermost thoughts with any of them; they did not know why, but it puzzled them. About all this, the princess remained silent, but she did not seem unhappy; rather, she seemed dreamy and far-away._

_While our princess had many friends, she had still more admirers. Princes came from the far corners of the earth to woo her and try to win her hand. And while she was always most kind in her refusal, refuse them all she did. _

'_Child, you've been courted by every prince in all the lands in all the worlds! What are you waiting for?' the courtiers exclaimed. _

'_Not what; who. I'm waiting for my best friend,' smiled the princess._

'_But where can he be? Surely your best friend is somewhere among these finest of men!'_

'_He'll come,' she replied patiently._

_The princess lived in a very large and beautiful palace, and she never tired of exploring its endless caverns below ground. She had begun her explorations in those empty days just after her father died. She was never afraid in the damp and darkness, for to her it felt like a velvety black cloak about her shoulders. She would go underground to be alone with her thoughts, and she felt herself wrapped in its welcoming comfort._

_One day, the young princess turned onto a newly-discovered passageway and ran smack into a large, stony something. She held her lantern up to see what it was that blocked her way. There, in the middle of the corridor, stood a massive gargoyle; but this was not just any gargoyle. This was a gargoyle more hideous than any the world had ever seen. Now, the castle had been built by the people of the kingdom as a wedding gift for their beloved king and queen. The people could not bear to ruin its fine facade with such a horrible stone apparition, so they hid it away in the caverns below, where no one would ever have to look upon its wretched ugliness._

_As our princess gazed at the poor abandoned gargoyle, her heart opened in friendship._

'_Hello,' she smiled. 'Are you all alone here?'_

_The gargoyle said nothing._

_The princess slipped her tiny hand into the gargoyle's massive stone paw._

'_I am all alone, just like you. Do you miss your parents, too?'_

_Still, the gargoyle said nothing._

'_Now, you are shy, because we have just met, but we are friends nevertheless. I shall come and visit you, sing and speak to you, and someday, you shall sing and speak with me. I shall wait for you, my friend," the princess promised._

_The lovely princess was as good as her word, and she visited the gargoyle she had befriended. She brought an old cape of her father's to wrap around the gargoyle's shoulders in winter, and in summer she would pick flowers for him, since she thought it sad that he had never seen flowers or sunshine. She told the gargoyle of her hopes, dreams, and fears, and as the years passed, she came to regard him as her confidant and dearest friend._

_One day, when the princess was at a festival in a nearby town, a great fire began in the palace. When the fire had destroyed all the furnishings and tapestries, everything inside the castle was reduced to charred ruins. The royal architects informed the princess that it was unsafe for her and her courtiers to return to the castle, because while the structure was stone, the heat of the fire had likely made the mortar brittle. When she heard this news, the princess wept bitterly._

'_Do not worry, your Highness. We shall construct you a new palace, lovelier than the last,' the royal architects assured her._

_The princess could not tell them that she did not weep for the castle, but for her dear gargoyle, alone and waiting for her beneath the charred castle._

'_But I do not want a new palace! I want that palace!' the princess whispered. _

_As she and her courtiers and the royal architects stood gazing at the smoking ruins, they heard an ominous rumbling sound. In the next moment, the entire castle crumbled to a pile of rubble before their eyes. The princess fell from her horse in a faint, overcome._

_The courtiers carried the princess to the home of the royal physician. She was put in the finest room in the house—and it was a very fine house indeed. The royal physician examined the princess while the courtiers and royal architects waited anxiously in the very fine hallway. Finally, the royal physician appeared. He cleared his throat most officially and said:_

'_Her Highness has had a tremendous shock today. She merely needs a bit of rest and she will be well. Come back in the morning."_

_The courtiers and royal architects were very relieved to hear this news, and they went to a tavern to discuss plans for the new palace they would build for their beloved princess. When they returned in the morning, however, the royal physician greeted them with a solemn face. Again, he cleared his throat most officially and said:_

'_Apparently her Highness is still suffering from her tremendous shock. She merely needs a bit more rest and she will be well. Come back in the morning.'_

_The next morning, the same thing occurred. And the next morning, and the next; until soon it had been ten days, and the courtiers were out of patience._

'_See here,' they said, 'it's time you called in other physicians! There must be something that can be done for our princess!'_

_All the finest physicians in the land were summoned, but each day the same thing happened. They would appear with solemn faces, clear their throats most officially and say:_

'_Apparently her Highness is still suffering from her tremendous shock. She merely needs a bit more rest and she will be well. Come back in the morning.'_

_Needless to say, all the people of the kingdom were very troubled by this. No one wanted to even think of working on the new palace while their beloved princess lay motionless in the finest room in the royal physician's house. Everyone was so sad that they never even noticed what was happening on the hill. For each night, the old palace was being rebuilt, stone by stone._

_One day, when the princess had been lying motionless in the finest room in the royal physician's house for five years, the royal physician's son happened to be playing in the yard, chasing butterflies. One especially beautiful butterfly caught the little boy's eye, and he was determined to follow it until it landed, so he could have a good look at it. He followed the butterfly all along its meandering way, until what do you know, but the butterfly alighted on the side of a great stone wall?_

_Hang on, what is this great stone wall doing here? Wondered the boy. As he drew away, gazing ever higher and wider, he realized it was not a stone wall at all, but the wall of the rebuilt castle!_

_Well, of course the boy ran all the way home, calling 'The castle is rebuilt! Look!'_

_All the people of the kingdom, physicians and courtiers ran outside to gaze up the hill in amazement. They all agreed that the newly-rebuilt castle was even more magnificent than it had been before. Finally, the royal physician found his voice. He cleared his throat most officially and said:_

'_Let us take the princess up to the palace. Perhaps having its beloved walls about her once more will revive her.'_

_So the people bore the princess lovingly up to her palace. They walked right in to the great hall, for there was no new wooden door in place. As they set the princess down on her litter, all the people gasped in horror. For there, in the middle of the great hall, stood a massive gargoyle, more hideous than any the world had ever seen. Some of the older people remembered this gargoyle from the initial construction of the palace, but they recalled that it had been placed deep in the recesses of the caverns beneath the castle. They could not imagine how it had come to be in the great hall of the grand, reconstructed palace. The younger people were simply horrified by the gargoyle's wretched ugliness, but in either case, everyone ran away, leaving the sleeping princess alone in the great hall with her old friend the hideous gargoyle._

_Presently, the lovely princess began to stir. She stretched as if simply awakening from a short nap. As she set her feet to the floor, she gazed around the great hall of her beloved palace. _

_What is this? She wondered. I am certain I saw my castle in ruins; could it have been an awful dream? _

_But as the princess noted the bare walls and floors, no front door and no furniture, she saw that it was true: there had been a fire; her home had been destroyed. _

_But how can this be? She asked herself._

_Suddenly, the princess spied the gargoyle, and instantly she knew that somehow, he had rebuilt the palace. She raced to him and threw her arms around his stone neck. But her first words to him were not of gratitude for her rebuilt home; no._

'_Oh, my most precious friend! When they told me I could not return, and I realized I would never see you again, I felt certain I should die of grief! How happy I am to see you!'_

_And the princess pressed her lovely rosebud lips to the twisted stone lips of the gargoyle. Suddenly the great hall was suffused with a rainbow light. Lo and behold, the gargoyle's arms slipped around the princess's waist as he turned into a flesh and blood man!_

"_Thank you for waiting for me," the gargoyle said. Though he was no more beautiful made of flesh than he had been of stone, the princess found his voice the most glorious sound she had ever heard._

'_I told you that someday you would sing and speak with me,' she smiled. And speak he did. The gargoyle told her of his horror when he realized the castle was burning and he was powerless to come to her aid. But somehow, out of his great love for her, he was able to will his stone limbs to life when the moon shone, and so rebuilt her palace, stone by stone._

_So he led her through the castle, showing her every room meticulously reconstructed. When they emerged on the rooftop, the moon was full. Gazing out over the kingdom, the princess rested in her gargoyle's arms, and they talked of how very happily ever after they would live."_

Christine and I were on the roof of the opera house now; we gazed out over our glorious city of lights, and dreamed of our own happily ever after.


	41. Chapter 41

Anci blinked in mute surprise; at least I think it was mute surprise. I tried to smile as benignly as possible and waited for her to sit. The finer points of courtesy between the sexes are lost on her.

"May I get you something, Sir?" Poor dim thing; she couldn't stretch to imagine why I was there. She could think of only two things I could possibly want: refreshment or her delectable behind. I reckon she was hoping it was the one and not the other.

"No, Anci, please sit." Ever obedient, she perched on the edge of the chair. I continued.

"I came to tell you that I heard your good news."

She looked very blank.

"The good news about Darius and you."

"Oh!"

I had forgotten how difficult conversation with Anci could be. No wonder I hardly

bothered with it.

"You must be very—happy." I decided against 'excited' so as not to confuse her with other associations.

Anci nodded gaily.

"Would you like to let your mother know you're getting married? I can write a letter to her if you like," I offered.

"Mama can't read either."

"Surely someone could read it to her."

"Darius is going to teach me how to read," Anci smiled. She looked rather bridal, I guessed.

"That's wonderful, Anci, I'm sure you'll do fine." Riii-ght. Well, Darius is an obnoxiously patient so-and-so; he is welcome to her.

"I have to be able to read bedtime stories to our babies," she explained.

"Of course." I heaved a tremendous sigh of relief. Everything about this exchange between Anci and me told me that we were so undeniably over. Excepting that her body was as lush and inviting as ever, it was difficult to remember that there had even been a 'we' in the first place. I couldn't wait to tell Christine.

I cornered my Persian friend before dinner and suggested we might look for a bigger home.

"I like it here," he whined.

"Well that's all good and fine, Reza, but you're the only one who's not growing. When Anci moves in we'll be double what we were. Christine doesn't want to leave you, but Masson won't be sleeping in his crib much longer, and you know that Darius will do his duty. We've gone from three bachelors in a brownstone to a nursery. We need more space."

Silence.

"Just think on it, will you? You know me; I can take Christine and Masson and live in a sewer. But for some reason, she and I both feel loath to leave you behind," I admitted grudgingly.

"I love you too, Erik," he smiled.

"Right; so you say, but have you married me yet? No."

"And Christine is really agreeable to living under the same roof with Anci? Remarkable."

"Not so remarkable when you hear what she threatened me with should I, ah, sin."

"Who knew when you penned your opera that you really are a Don Juan, my friend," Reza chuckled.

"Please," I grimaced.

"Well, Erik, you must admit, you do have that indefinable something…"

"It's not indefinable; it's defined as repulsive, you dolt."

"I am referring to your charm and magnetism, you dolt."

"Quick, come kiss me before Christine sees."

Christine wanted to shop and for some reason felt more would be accomplished if she left Masson behind; imagine that. It was rainy; we couldn't torment the geese, so we wound up in my room. Masson considered it a wonderland.

We pounded the piano and sang. When that wore off, we dug out pastels. Masson worked tirelessly on something blue, and when he was finished, pronounced it a portrait of his mother. He put a black stick alongside—that was me; and interestingly, he saw himself as a roundish orange shape. I was able to guess that it was him by the placement of the orange blob—emphatically between the lovely blue lady and the black stick.

Next it was time for a boat ride. Masson was the ferryman; I had to sit twisted like a pretzel at the top end of the coffin. Masson was about to push us off from shore when he realized he needed his official ferryman's outfit. He plopped my mask on top of his head and swaddled himself in my cape: now we were ready to go. My straight-edge was conscripted as an oar and off we went.

We landed at the first island and disembarked to explore. We encountered a strange native engaged in a bizarre tea-making ritual and managed to abscond with several shortbread biscuits. The native was clearly deaf as well as blind, as our escape was accompanied by much squealing and giggling.

After our meal, we paddled off to the next island. It was a curious land with trees that looked like book shelves. We crept up on the native who was dozing over a sacred text and tickled his ear. He was not an especially fierce native; we actually befriended him. We told him about our harrowing experience with the kitchen native. He assured us we were fortunate to have escaped with our lives.

These adventures left us quite drowsy, so we got a fresh nappy and settled into the boat for a nap. When we awoke, the rain had stopped and the sun was out, so we set out in search of puddles. We found a few excellent ones. When Christine arrived home, we were enjoying our fruit ice on the front steps. We greeted her warmly, but she took one look at our muddy selves and ordered us into the tub immediately. She collected our clothing and grumbled that she had no idea how they'd ever come clean; likely they were ruined.

It really made no sense for Christine to be so grumpy after she'd been out spending money all day, but I decided to worry about it later. We were having too much fun splashing in the tub. At least we did, until Mama put the kibosh on that too.

"What a grumpy Mama," I whispered to Masson.

"GUMP Mama!" he echoed. Will I never learn? Christine flounced off in high dudgeon.

"Son, we must always be kind and considerate to ladies. When they get upset, generally we're to blame somehow," I opened.

"Huh," Masson grunted as I scooped him from the tub.

"But, sometimes ladies get grumpy for no apparent reason," I explained.

"No 'paren' weasel."

"That's right, and we must tread lightly until they're sweet again."

"Swee' shok-lit."

"That too, but not now; after dinner or Mama will beat Papa."

"Mama beat Papa! Mama beat Papa!"

This was our chant all the way to the dinner table, at which we arrived freshly combed and squeaky clean, if I say so myself. Christine scowled at the chant, but Reza immediately grasped the import of my accomplishment.

"Erik, did you really manage to dress yourself and Masson?"

"Indeed, and bathed too." I admit I was fairly bursting with pride.

"Ye gods, we'll make a civilized man of you yet."

I assumed that I would find out what I'd done to incur Christine's wrath after Masson was down for the night; it couldn't just be the muddy clothing. My assumption turned out to be faulty, however; she was singularly disinterested in conversation. As soon as Masson was sleeping peacefully, she had her way with me shamelessly. Believing peace in the home to be of paramount importance, I offered no resistance.


	42. Chapter 42

I offered Darius my hand. I wanted to offer him a brandy, but I'd learned years ago that Darius does not drink. He is an actual Muslim, not simply a cultural one, and a genuinely good fellow. The last thing I would want to do is insult him.

"I understand congratulations are in order."

"Oh, yes; thank you, Mr Erik." His smile seemed genuine, and I was glad of it.

"I want you to know that you've nothing to be concerned about from me."

"I understand that, Sir; it's in the past," he replied, clearly wanting to leave the subject. I realized he must be desperately in love with Anci to be able to overlook the history the girl and I shared, proud man that he was.

"Well then, much happiness, Darius. I'm sure she'll be a marvelous wife to you. Will she become Muslim, do you think?"

"Yes, she is being taught by the mullah's wife even now," he nodded happily. I suppose one god is as good as another to a dim little thing like Anci.

"Good; good." I patted his shoulder and wandered away, wondering how long I'd feel like an egg-stealing dog in his presence. Anci wasn't his at the time, but…eeesh.

I had nearly settled down with a book when I heard what sounded like a herd of ponies upstairs, and screaming.

"NO! BAD MAMA, NO! PAA-PAA!"

The little man dissolved in tears. Sounded like my cue. I reached the top of the stairs and the fat, naked baby threw himself against my legs. He was making a good job of climbing up my trousers.

"Papa, Papa," he moaned. He was trying to tell me that Christine was evil and had been beating him, I think.

"I hope you're satisfied now. He refuses to keep his clothes on. I've dressed him twice already this morning! Oh, and I trust you're prepared to assume all his care, because he now refuses to let me…touch him to get him clean." Christine shoved Masson's clothes into my hands and stomped away.

"Wait, Christine," I called, genuinely baffled. "How is it my fault that he won't let you touch him?"

"Well, you had to show off in the bathtub, didn't you? No doubt you filled his head with what a BIG BOY he is!"

For the record, I did not show off. All we did was have a brief conversation establishing that we were boys and Mama was a girl. He's a very clever little man; one certainly can't disguise the fact that Christine is different from him, of all people. At any rate, it did not seem the time to point out that big boys have no trouble with girls touching them; I let it go. Who says I can't learn from my mistakes? A half dozen house shoes bounced off my head had made an impact—pardon the pun.

"GUMP Mama!" My son, the diplomat.

"Not now, Son," I whispered. "You must learn timing. Timing is everything."

"Evvyt'ing."

"Yes, timing is everything. Now let's get dressed, shall we?"

"NO!"

"Not 'no', sir. Yes," I frowned.

"No dress Masson."

"What did you say? Say again? Who is this?" I pointed at his chest. He'd always called himself "'Son" til that moment.

"Masson."

"Masson! Yay! Masson!" I scooped him up and ran hollering for Christine. She came instantly, breathless, imagining something was wrong.

"What!"

"Listen! Tell Mama; who's this?"

"Mas-SON!" my son declared proudly.

Celebration reigned; Masson is beautiful and brilliant. No one will ever believe he's a Chagny.

. . . 

"What's wrong?" I placed a fluttering kiss on the back of Christine's neck.

"I just…can't seem to relax," she sighed, frustrated.

"Yes; but what's wrong?" I brushed her hair back. She was silent a long time. I felt her considering whether she should speak or not.

"I suppose it's stupid Anci getting married," she admitted finally.

Ew. "Hm?"

Christine gave a large sigh; then another…then the telltale quivering of her shoulders began.

"I'm never going to be married!" she sniffed. She spun on me angrily. "And it's all your fault for running off to Hungary! Bastard!" she thumped me hard in the chest.

Tricky. Once again, I think I made a wise decision in not mentioning that, technically, she was still married to our friend Raoul. I was taken aback by this sudden onslaught of conventional morality, but I knew that Christine's moods are caught up with moon phases, planetary alignments, and the migration of birds.

"I'm sorry, Christine. Surely there is something we can do," I struggled.

"Well, _I'm _not going to ask the Bishop about it, and I don't intend to ask Raoul to ask; the poor dear. He's done more than enough on my behalf and has nothing but a broken nose to show for his trouble," she said pointedly.

Things were deteriorating bizarrely. Christine was angry with me, the man she wished to marry, and was in sympathy with Raoul, the man she no longer wished to be married to. My chest tightened up, and I developed a dizzying headache, even though I was lying down. Time to assume the fall-back position.

"You're absolutely correct, Angel."

Christine turned to me with an I-Mean-Business face.

"Then you'll go and speak with the Bishop, explain things to him, and get my annulment."

"Christine, I'm…not even Catholic." I know it was weak; I was reaching.

"Of course you are," she scoffed. "What else would you be?" She turned around and snuggled in happily. "Go to sleep, Erik, darling."

Right.

I took up this disturbing turn of events with Gaston as soon as possible.

"I'm sorry, Erik; I don't understand why you no longer wish to marry Christine."

"Of course I want to marry her, man. You think I want to face my son in twelve year's time and explain to him why he's Masson de Chagny? " I began pacing. "I just…don't like priests. They make me queasy."

"Come; the Bishop won't hurt you," Gaston smiled.

"The devil he won't. First, he'll ask if I'm Catholic. I'll say, Well, sort of. Then he'll ask if I'm confirmed; I'll say no. He'll ask if I've made my first Holy Communion; I'll say no. Finally, he'll ask, Well, then, you are baptized, aren't you? And I'll say, You know, I suppose so. Mummy and I never discussed it. Next thing you know I'll be in a catechism class, trying to memorize Pope's names, while a troop of vicious eight year olds call me names. No thank you."

"I see your point, Erik. I must say, I like the way you put it so theatrically. I can actually picture you, squeezed into that little school desk as the delinquents bombard you with spitballs."

"Thanks, Gaston. I'm going to throw up."

He abandoned the sofa, allowing me to lie down. "Here, loosen your cravat. Would you like a brandy?"

"No. Have you any morphine?"

"We must come up with something a bit more concrete, Erik. We need to evolve a plan. Small steps at a time, so you won't overwhelm your delicate sensibilities."

"Ha ha."

"I'm perfectly serious. I appreciate how difficult this normal life stuff is for you."

"You are a saintly man, Gaston."

"You may name your next child after me. Now, to begin. How do you feel about securing an interview with the Bishop as a first step?"

"Horrible."

"Let's think about it, shall we, Erik? The Bishop is a busy man. Likely you'll have several weeks to prepare for your interview; and I'll help you."

"What must I do, then?"

"Same as for anyone," Gaston shrugged. "You just go to the cathedral and ask for the Bishop. You'll get some secretary of his, and you ask for an interview to discuss an annulment."

"It's not my annulment," I pouted.

"We've been over this, Erik."

"Shit."

. . 

"NIIIIIIIIGHTTIME SHAAAAARPENS—"

SLAM!

Feet on the stairs. The door to the parlor flew open.

"What are you doing?" Christine demanded, toe tapping, arms crossed.

"Nothing, Darling," I replied innocently.

"Then take him outside. He has been singing and asking questions for three days."

I complied immediately. Masson had suddenly decided to verbalize, and he could not stop. Christine blamed me utterly, for everything, back to his conception.

"Papa!" Masson smiled and came into my arms. "NIIIIIIIIGHTTIME SHAAAAARPENS—"

"Yes yes yes. Would you like to go for a walk? Perhaps your geese are about."

"Why?"

"Because it's daytime, and they're probably hungry."

"DAAAAAYTIME SHAAAAARPENS—"

"Masson, we can sing more quietly when we're indoors."

"Now Masson goes outdoors!" He careened down the steps without incident. I felt as though someone had put my heart in a vise. I should have had children thirty years ago, before Christine was born.

"Papa, look! What's that?"

"You know that's a horse, Masson."

"No, that."

"That's horse poo."

"HORSE POO! HORSE POO!" He ran skipping and chanting. Two old biddies passing by glared at me for corrupting the angelic child.

"Masson," I caught up to him and grabbed his hand. "Masson, let's not sing about poo."

"Why?"

"Because poo is private."

"What's private?"

"Private is something we discuss quietly."

"Why?"

"Because people are hypocrites and they like to pretend some things don't really happen."

"What?"

"We'll discuss it later. Would you like to learn a new song?"

"NEW SONG! NEW SONG!"

"Right. This is called 'Sur le pont d'Avignon'…"

We located our geese; rather, they located the chubby child with the bread.

"Papa. Why are the babies fuzzy?"

"Because they don't have proper feathers yet. That is called 'goose down'."

"Hahahaha! Sit DOWN! Put that DOWN! Goose DOWN!"

I wondered if I had delighted in language as he did. Likely not. If I was a chatty one like Masson, likely I was locked in a room and told to shut up.

"Was Masson fuzzy?"

"Not at all; you were just as you are now, only smaller."

"You're fuzzy."

"Yes; when you grow up you'll be fuzzy too."

"Boys are fuzzy. Girls are fancy."

"They certainly are." I'd never heard it described that way, but it suited.

"Why?"

"Um, well, you see how the Mama and Papa geese are different, so we can tell who's the girl and who's the boy."

"Papa, look! Kite!"

Thank god.

I returned him to Christine asleep and adorable once more.

"Thank you," she smiled. Her first genuine smile in days. I decided to push my luck, slithered close.

"Fancy a nap?"

"NO."

"Have I done something wrong?" I thought I might weasel her into it if I could get her to admit that I'd been exemplary—which I had been.

"No. I just don't have the energy to deal with that right now. He's too much," she sighed.

"Well, that's alright, Darling. You don't have to do much."

For that error in judgement, I received the slap of the millenium.

"I didn't mean it the way it sounded!" I whined.

"Liar; go away. Where's my annulment?"

"I'm working on it!" I grumbled. What the hell, she'd already called me a liar.

I spent some time considering the annulment conundrum; specifically, how long I could delay before Christine suspected foul play and began to revoke privileges. I had noticed a slippage in her tolerance level which I believed could be traced to the problem of Living in Sin. I decided to speak with her about it. Not entirely candidly; just enough to halt the erosion of my good standing.

I brought her a glass of wine and began brushing her hair. When the moment seemed right, I opened the campaign.

"Angel, these annulment proceedings will likely be protracted," I tried to sound apologetic.

"Oh?" her eyebrow shot up as if she suspected some subterfuge. She can smell it, I swear.

"Well, you know that an august institution such as the Church moves ponderously. It is on God's time, after all."

"You're right," she agreed, relaxing.

"I wonder if there is anything I can do in the meantime to…"

"Well, I have your ring," she smiled, admiring it. I could almost catch a whiff of victory. I leaned forward for a nibble.

"Oh! Erik!"

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Yes, there is something. You could get a tattoo."

"I'm sorry, Darling, say it again; I thought you said I could get a tattoo."

"I did. You know, something with a roses and a black ribbon, 'Christine' in fancy letters," she elaborated.

I was speechless. She may as well have said 'Grow a couple of horns on your head'.

"Well?" she asked.

"I…don't know what to say…where did this idea come from?"

She shrugged. "I saw a book of tattoos at the library, and I think they're quite pretty."

"Ah. They are quite permanent. Gentlemen don't get tattoos, anyway."

"No one would see but me."

"Ah. Where did you plan for this tattoo to go?"

"The top of your arm, I suppose. Not your chest."

"Ha. Ha. Thank you."

The Catholic catechism or a tattoo; why not offer me the third choice of a hemlock aperitif and have done with it?


	43. Chapter 43

"Papa. What's that?"

"It's a razor, Son. I am shaving."

"It hurts?"

"Not so long as I hold the razor properly. If I hold it the wrong way, it's very dangerous, sharp like a knife. Must never touch Papa's razor."

"Don't touch knife, rope, stove, razor."

"That's my clever man."

He climbed up to study the process more closely.

"If you like, I will shave you when I've finished."

"YAY!"

"LOOK MAMA! Papa shaves Masson!"

"I see, what a big boy you are!"

"Boys are fuzzy. Girls are fancy."

"Oh, really? And who told you that?" she asked, shooting me a look.

"Masson is a brilliant child, Mama. That is solely his observation," I insisted.

"You are a pair," she sighed. "Will you go out today?"

"I think I shall. We're all clean-shaven, we see what sort of trouble we can get into, hm?"

"YAY! SUR LE PONT D'AVIGNON—"

"Masson, will you please go ask Darius for a spoon? Thank you, my big helper boy."

We watched him run off, feeling most important. I turned to Christine with a smile.

"What is it that you must send him off on this pretend errand, my dear?"

"What is happening with the annulment? Have you spoken with the Bishop?"

"I've not secured an interview yet. (Completely true.) He's a busy fellow, I suppose."

Christine sighed, frustrated.

"Is there some urgency of which I'm unaware?" I smiled. Mistake. Christine no longer bore even the semblance of a sense of humor about things marital.

"Only that Masson will be in school soon! Erik, please!"

"Well, in that case, don't worry. I'm sure I'll be in to see the Bishop before Masson is a world-famous tenor." I pecked her cheek. "Darling, did you just growl at me? Christine mustn't growl at Erik; most unbecoming. I shall have to beat you," I chuckled.

When Masson and I walked past the Opera House, it looked alive again.

"Masson, see that building over there?"

"Pretty!"

"Yes. That is where I met your Mama."

"Ooooh. Why?"

"Well, because I lived there, and so did Mama. You know how beautifully Mama sings. I fell in love her, and her beautiful voice."

"Mama's fancy voice."

"Yes, you're right; her voice is fancy, as well."

"Papa, let's go there."

I took my son to the place where he actually began. Eyes wide as saucers, he reached out to caress the cool marble.

"Pretty steps," he whispered reverently.

He caught great handfuls of the velvet draperies, fingered the gold fringe trim, cooing with amazement. He went directly for the breasts of a golden statue; my son.

"Pretty, fancy gold lady," he murmured. "I fell in love with her."

"She's very pretty, Masson."

We strolled down the aisles; walked the stage. I took him up on the catwalks, which he adored. I brought him to Box 5—but I did not take him underground; not yet.

We returned home and I penned my managers a note, advising that Christine was rehearsing and would be ready for their summons. I instructed them to leave a note on the shelf in Box 5 advising of their dates and plans. Remote management of the theater and those two geniuses would be challenging. It was easier to be in the building at all times, so I could keep my eye on every detail. I told Christine that we'd begin rehearsing again, since the Opera was preparing to reopen. Naturally I assumed she would take this for the wonderful news that it obviously was.

"But, I'm not going back to the opera," she said, stunned.

"Of course you are," I replied, digging through my music.

"I have Masson now. I don't want to work anymore."

I stopped rifling through papers and examined to her to make sure I was speaking to the correct woman. I was.

"Don't be ridiculous, Christine. What the devil has Masson to do with it?"

"Mothers don't work if they have the money not to…"

"Darling, you never worked for the money. You worked for your music, for your voice. Now: we shall rehearse beginning tomorrow morning. Run along now, Erik is busy."

"Erik, my baby--"

"Christine. I did not fall in love with you because you could make a baby. I fell in love with you because you could sing, and sing you shall. Why are we still having this conversation? You want your baby? Go: go play with him now. Tomorrow morning you go to work."

"Erik!"

"Not another word, Christine."

She departed in stunned silence.

. . . 

Masson was asleep, Christine was fresh from the bath and I was just fresh. For some reason known only to Christine, however, she was being maddeningly uncooperative. I scooted her gown up. She drew it back down.

"Chris-teeen, what are you doing?"

"What are _you_ doing?"

"You know…" She scrunched her neck up before I could latch on.

"Don't. I have to get up early for rehearsal, remember?"

"Not that early, Darling. I'll be quick," I promised.

"You most certainly will not! What do you think I am; a convenience? I'll derive some enjoyment or I won't be bothered." She shoved me away.

"Make up your mind; shall I take my time or be quick?"

"I don't want you to be anything; I'm going to sleep, thank you."

"What the devil is wrong with you? You're not even letting me persuade you," I was most definitely whining. I think it had been three or four days; I get headaches. Really.

"Erik. I am not letting you persuade me because I am not interested. Can you understand?"

"No, I can't! You're not interested, and I am; how do you suggest we meet halfway on this? What do you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to leave me alone. If you're in such dire straits, take yourself next door and do what you must. Good night." She gave me her back, clearly expecting that the conversation was over. I was nonplussed.

"I can't believe you said that, you nasty girl."

"Erik, go to sleep or get out."

"Fine. _Fine!_"


	44. Chapter 44

"And what do you think? She said, 'I'm a mother now, I don't want to go back to the opera!'"

I was telling Reza about Christine's absurd declaration.

"As I recall, your original design for Christine having a child was that she would stay home."

"No: it was that she would stop the women's rights nonsense. I never intended that she would stop singing; it never even occurred to me."

"It's only normal for a woman to want to stay with her child, Erik. It doesn't seem right for you to expect her to return to work. After all, it's not as if you need the money."

"Did she put you up to this, Reza? Tell me!" I demanded.

"Erik! Calm down! Of course not; she didn't put me up to anything."

"Are you sure? That's just what she said, that she didn't have to work because she doesn't need money."

"Well, my friend, for what it's worth, I don't think you're being realistic. You wanted her to be a good little…wife…Now she wants to be just that, and you won't allow it."

"What do you know?" I snarled.

"Why is it so important to you that she returns to the opera?" he asked, like a damn fool.

"Should a voice like Christine's go to waste? Go unheard? Be used for nothing but lullabies and bedtime stories?"

"What's wrong with that, if it makes her happy? I thought you loved her."

"Of course I love her! What the devil do you mean by that?"

"It seems to me that if you want her to be happy, you won't press her into doing what she no longer wishes to do, and you'll let her be a mother."

"It seems to me that if she wants me to be happy, she'll sing for me!" I countered. I threw my hands up. "It's useless talking to you. You don't know anything about women."

"I'm sorry, Casanova. I forgot who I was speaking with," he smirked.

"Very funny. You don't understand what it's like for a man to give his whole life to a woman and have her throw it back in his face!"

"What are we talking about now, Erik? I thought we were talking about Christine singing at the opera!"

"We are! Didn't I give her my music, teach her, guide her, nurture her voice? What was that if it wasn't love?"

"It was a lonely bachelor in the basement, that's what," he chuckled.

"That's uncalled for. You're precious close to insulting the mother of my son; a beautiful and brilliant child, I might remind you!" I was hot.

"I mean no disrespect to Christine or Masson. You know I love them dearly! Good heavens, what's become of your sense of humor?"

"I have a headache. It's hard to find humor in the world when you're suffering as I am," I complained, collapsing on the sofa.

"Truly, you are a tortured genius, Erik."

"Stop patronizing me. You have no idea."

"Well then, if you'll excuse me, I'll change the subject. Darius and Anci will be married the end of the month. I'd like to send them off on a nice wedding trip; do you think we can muddle through, or shall I see about temporary help?"

"Muddle through without Darius? For how long?"

"I don't know; four weeks or so, I should think?" he shrugged.

"Horrors; our own cooking and marketing and laundering? We all but starve when he takes one whole day off."

"Right," Reza agreed. "I'll see about an ad in _L'Epoque_."

Suddenly, I had a flash of inspiration.

"Reza! Maybe I should take Christine off on a trip."

"What's that?"

"You know, a proper romantic holiday. I know she likes the sea shore," I mused.

"Erik, that is a lovely idea! I'm proud of you!"

"Indeed. Perhaps she'd come home rejuvenated and ready to go back to work."

Reza sighed. "Did I say I was proud of you? You're hopeless."

Masson stormed in, Christine close behind. He was wearing my cape and was brandishing a sword which looked rather like a spoon to a casual observer.

"HAAAA!"

"Masson, you'll have to duel with Uncle Reza. Mama has to go sing now," Christine sighed softly. She looked subdued and resigned, and would not look at me. I cannot bear it when Christine will not look at me. It affects me out of all proportion, and I feel…ugly.

"Come along, D'Artagnan, let's see if I can find a sword with which to defend myself!" Reza laughed. Beaming, Masson ran off; Christine's moist eyes followed him down the hallway. I took her hand and led her upstairs.

I sat at the piano and turned to Christine. "Come, Angel, you look as if you're awaiting the guillotine. It's not as bad as all that." I went to her and took her into my arms. I kissed her forehead and Christine clutched at my arms.

"Erik, please don't make me do this. I'm afraid what will happen to us if you force me," she whispered.

"What will happen to us if you refuse me? Christine, don't you remember what it was like? How much you loved it; how much you wanted it?"

"But so much has happened since then! I'm not that little girl anymore; can't you realize that?"

I turned from her and her words. I could scarcely breathe for the weight on my chest. "No, don't say that. You're still my little girl!"

How can I explain it to Christine if she doesn't understand? How can she not understand? What is there for us if we don't have music? Who shall I be if she's no longer my little girl? Why would she need me if she doesn't want to sing anymore?

I felt Christine's arms slip around my waist, her cheek against my back.

"What is it, Erik?" she whispered. "What's worrying my dear love?"

I broke free of her embrace. "SING, DAMN YOU!" I bellowed. Christine squealed, cringing and ducking at the blast of ferocity I had unleashed upon her. "Or shall I find someone else to give my music to, you ungrateful baggage!"

"Oh, God, Erik…" she moaned. She leapt to her feet and dashed from the room.


	45. Chapter 45

Christine was only gone a moment when waves of remorse washed over me. I groaned…what is wrong with me? All I do is hurt her. I kept hearing Christine that day in my lair, saying I had to stop lashing out, and I had to stop running away. However much I wanted to run, I knew I couldn't. I would have faced the bishop and the tattooist together; anything not to have to face Christine, but there was nothing for it. I had to go in to her.

I walked into the bedroom without knocking. Christine wouldn't even raise her head to look at me.

"Erik, no."

"Christine, please listen, because I'm really scared." The words came pouring out of me in a torrent.

"If you don't let me say this now I'll never find the courage to say it again. I feel like a consummate bastard, and I want to run more than anything. I don't blame you if you tell me to get out of your sight because I don't deserve you and Masson, and I know I'll never be good enough. I don't mean because I'm ugly, I mean because I'm just not right in the head! I don't know what is wrong with me; I don't know why I said those horrible things. Christine, I don't know why I do most of the things I do, I just feel powerless to help myself. How can you stand me? All I do is mistreat you and come crying for forgiveness."

I crawled onto the bed, crying as usual. I put my head in Christine's lap and she stroked my head.

"I'm afraid if you won't sing anymore," I whispered finally.

"Why, my precious?" Christine's voice was so soothing. "What is it that frightens you if I don't sing?"

"I don't know." I hid my face in her skirt.

"You don't know, or you don't want to say?"

I couldn't answer that.

"It's a courageous thing you did to come in here, Erik."

Christine rocked and soothed me just as she always did with Masson. I couldn't help but be struck by the fact that she didn't need me anymore, now she had a real baby to cuddle and love.

"Wouldn't you rather have a man instead of another baby? At least you know Masson will grow up. I hate it that you have to coddle me like an infant; don't you? I feel so ashamed of how I need it!"

"I don't hate it; perhaps if you had it when you were an infant you wouldn't need it so now. It's not shameful, Erik. Everyone wants comfort."

"You're so good, Christine. You deserve so much. You deserve everything, and I've nothing to give you anymore! I'm useless!" I cried harder still then, for failing her so horribly. The only person I'd ever given the least fig in the world about, and I didn't see any way I'd ever be able to make her happy.

"Oh my love, you're anything but useless."

"Please go back to the opera, Christine? I'll do anything you ask. Anything! Please, please!"

"What is this you're afraid of? You can tell me, Erik. You've been so courageous today."

"No more."

"Erik, what bad thing could happen if you tell me?"

"Nothing, I suppose, but it's not so simple!" I insisted. I hid again.

"No, I know it's not simple," Christine had a smile in her voice. "I remember how afraid I was to come and seek you out when I left Raoul. Imagine your Christine being afraid to open her heart to you? It sounds silly when I say it out loud, and yet it was very frightening at the time."

"No, you're just going to say something to make me feel better, Christine, it's--"

"Is that what you think of me, Erik? You think I'll lie to you?"

Shit, I'd stepped into it again. I sat up and searched Christine's eyes, trying desperately to make it alright. "No, no, I mean, you'd say something to make me feel better, because you love me. You wouldn't mean to stop loving me, but--"

Uh-oh. I hadn't intended to say that at all, it all just came dribbling out as if my mouth had sprung a leak. Naturally it was sufficient to set me bawling again. I buried my face in the pillows.

"Stop loving you?" Christine exclaimed. "Oh, no, my dear love, how could I stop loving you?" She was right at my ear, I could feel and hear her close. "What has my loving you to do with my singing at the opera?"

"_Why would you love me if you weren't singing?" _

People always say it's best to have things out in the open. They say that once the bad thing is faced, one feels instantly better. Well, it's a pathetic lie, I can tell you. I told Christine what terrified me, and I had to run from the room to heave my guts up, that's how instantly better I felt.

Right, so I got that out of my system, ha ha, and literally crawled back into the room and on to the bed. Christine was right there with a cool cloth for my head. She lifted my mask away so tenderly and kissed both my horrible cheeks.

"Erik, just rest, and listen. You think you have nothing to offer me if I'm not singing, is that it? You think I love you merely because you helped me with my voice? You have no idea how much you've given me, even if I leave out my baby."

I heard the smile in Christine's voice again. "Perhaps I should worry that you'll stop loving me if I don't sing anymore," she suggested.

"Of course not!"

"It sounds ridiculous when it's said out loud, doesn't it?"

Suddenly there was a crash outside the door.

"MAMA! PAPA!"

Bang! Bang!

"Time to go out!"

Christine opened the door and the little slave-driver marched in. He frowned at me.

"Time to go out, Papa!"

"Papa's got a tummy ache, Masson. Would you like to go for a walk with Mama?" Christine offered.

"NO! Papa!"

"I'm sorry," Reza offered. "I couldn't keep him entertained. Once the duel was over, he decided it was time for a walk."

"It's fine," I assured him. "His clock is quite accurate. Come along, Masson. Mama and I will have plenty of time to talk when you're at university."

. . . 

I tried to take up the thread of our conversation with Christine later that evening; she would hear none of it. She told me it was forgotten, and that she was ever so proud of me for facing my fears. I laid awake most of the night, thinking that if I live to be a hundred and fifty, I still won't have learned to be kind of man she deserves.


	46. Chapter 46

"Papa, I want this."

"Son, I don't know what Mama would say to that. I don't know what Uncle Reza would say, either."

"Yes!" He made a face which suggested a screaming fit was just around the bend, and stomped his foot just in case I failed to get the message.

"Here, let's go home and ask Mama and Uncle Reza. If they say yes, we'll come back and get the kitty."

"NOOOOOOOO!" Masson threw himself to the ground, nearly making an end of the pathetic excuse for a cat that he wanted to bring home. It was a sad brownish-striped thing that likely had not had a good meal since Masson's birthday. Unafraid of anything, Masson had simply cruised right up to the cat and snatched it into his arms, and the scrawny creature welcomed him like an old friend. It vibrated happily in the fat baby's arms.

"I bring the kitty NOW!"

"Not if you shout at me like that, you will not, sir."

"Paa-paaaa! Bring the kitty now! Please!" he wept buckets. If Christine saw him burying his face in that filthy, vermin infested fur, she'd put me on the street with the cat. On me, the sight had a slightly different effect.

"Oh…alright...I hope…"

"YAY! KITTY KITTY! KITTY KITTY!"

We had to run all the way home to share our good news. By the time we got there, it was a close run thing whether there would be an extra mouth to feed or not. I was all but gone to my reward from the race home.

"MAA-MAA! MAA-MAA! LOOOOOK!"

"Oh…my…" When Christine looked at me, it was impossible to read her expression. I attempted a pathetic I-had-precious-little-to-do-with-it smile. "Where did you find this kitty, Masson?"

"Outside! Pretty lost kitty, Mama."

"Yes, it's a very…pretty kitty."

"Papa say yes." He wheedled, all big-eyed and adorable. Little liar.

"Papa did not say yes, Papa said let's ask Mama and Uncle Reza, but you can guess how that went," I corrected.

Masson began to cry again. "Mama, my kitty."

Christine frowned at me. I gave her an, Oh, it's just one little mangy cat look.

"Alright. But Papa will have to give the kitty a bath right away," Christine smiled beatifically. Fiend.

"YAY! KITTY BATH! KITTY BATH!" Masson was already dragging the poor thing upstairs.

"WHAT!" I squeaked. Christine smirked wickedly at me. "This will cost you something deliciously naughty, Madame."

"You're the one who let him bring it home, don't blame me," she laughed. "I'm off to tell Reza."

"I hope it will be alright," I fretted.

"Of course it will. He spoils Masson almost as badly as you do."

"PAA-PAA! HURRY BATH!" His Lordship summoned from upstairs.

"Well? Go wash that thing before it makes my son deathly ill," Christine chuckled.

I discovered why the cat was homeless. It was the meanest, vilest cat in France. It would have been drowned or strangled but Masson was right there, crying in sympathy. I wrapped it in a towel, and handed it, wet and squealing, to him. He took it straight to his bed, where he petted it and sang to it. The cat lay basking in the child's love, but for adults—at least this adult—it had nothing but murderous hatred.

I dragged my shredded, hemorrhaging carcass downstairs, hoping for some sympathy. None was forthcoming, so I took myself over to my theater to see how badly my idiot management team was botching things without continual oversight.

So nice to be home; Carlotta was howling away, the few pinned-together costumes I could glimpse looked like something our new kitty would cough up on the carpet, and fully a third of the new crop of ballerinas looked like plump little piglets. Fat ballerinas; charming. I had all to do not to stomp out on stage and say "Right, you're all fired. Where is Mme Giry, goddammit?"

Actually, I did spot her, and I left her a little note. Speaking of notes, I picked up the manager's note. The fiasco I saw being rehearsed was an opera of Snow White. Snow White?

By the time I returned home for dinner, I was convinced that the theater was doomed unless I took it upon myself to toddle over daily just as if I were working a fulltime job. Easier said than done, since Masson expected me in attendance.

I went upstairs to fetch Masson for dinner. He was demonstrating workbench pounding technique, reviewing the finer points with Kitty. Kitty was sprawled alongside the baby, flicking his tail slowly and placidly. When I entered the room, Kitty gave me the Stink-eye and turned back to his friend.

"Kitty will have to stay up here while we have dinner, Masson."

"NO! Kitty want dinner!"

"Right, Son, we'll feed Kitty after we've had dinner, alright? Come along." Masson came along easily and happily enough, Kitty close behind.

"Kitty stay with me!" Masson glowered at all the adults in the dining room.

"Masson, Kitty cannot eat at the table with us," Christine cautioned him.

"Kitty sit here!" Masson pointed his fat finger next to his hair, and miraculously, Kitty sat. I cleared my throat.

"I would like to caution everyone over the age of two years that while Kitty seems the perfect picture of feline charm, he is a vicious beast. Please do not attempt anything you see Masson do," I smiled.

"Have you recovered the use of your hands, Erik?" Reza asked, smiling.

"Just barely."

Kitty continued to sit benignly at Masson's side. It was an uncanny thing.

"Masson! No beans for Kitty! You may not feed Kitty from the table," Christine glowered.

Masson slipped wordlessly from his chair, scooped up Kitty and padded into the kitchen.

"DARIUS! KITTY NEED DINNER!"

Three adults sat staring open-mouthed.

"Erik, go see to your willfully disobedient son," Christine ordered, "and tell him he did not ask to be excused, and so is not excused from the table. He will have no sweet tonight."

I hopped up to deliver the message immediately. I did not want to lose my sweet tonight. "Masson, you must come back to the table now. You may not leave without asking to be excused, and you may not just get up and take off with Kitty."

Darius was sautéing liver for the goddam cat. Lucky it was me and not Christine, or she'd've had words for Darius as well. It seemed that every adult that walked into the house fell instantly under Masson's sway and took leave of the good sense they were born with. In sixteen years' time, all the parents of daughters in Paris will be packing their girls off to convents.

"Papa, Kitty need dinner!" Masson pouted tearfully. I crouched beside him.

"Son, we'll take the dish of liver in and set it next to you, so you and Kitty may eat together. But Mama will take Kitty away if you're naughty."

I took the plate of liver from Darius. It looked lovely, actually. I'm not sure what kind of spices he'd put into the liver. I suppose he did well not to deglaze the pan with a bit of white wine.

"Come along, boys," I took Masson's hand, Kitty darted up ahead and curved back and around repeatedly. I believe his intent was to trip me, simultaneously getting his dinner and assassinating me in revenge for the bath.

"Kitty has dinner now!" Masson beamed. Both of them ducked into their dinner eagerly as Christine crinkled her nose.

"Erik, what is that?"

"Liver. Sauteed with, I think, garlic and parsley…you know our Darius."

"Oh for goodness' sake!" Christine was nonplussed. "You've all taken leave of your senses! You're spoiling someone shamelessly! Really, Reza, I must insist!"

Reza was wiping tears from his eyes. "Christine, if you would like to tell Darius how to prepare cat food, please do so. He has been with me long enough that I know better than to advise him in things culinary," he chuckled.


	47. Chapter 47

"Christine come on walk too, Papa." Masson turned and ran back upstairs. We would definitely be discussing referring to Mama as 'Christine'; that would please with Mama like a rat in a punchbowl. Imagine my surprise when he reappeared with Kitty.

"Christine come," he smiled.

"Masson, who is Christine? Kitty?"

"Mm. No more Kitty; Christine."

"Son, Christine is usually a girl's name—like for Mama. Kitty is a boy."

"No! Pretty name for my pretty kitty."

Poor Kitty; how ignominious. I prayed for the hateful beast that none of the other tomcats in the neighborhood caught wind of his name-change.

Christine (the woman) suddenly decided that our son—and I, likely--needed religion. She instituted saying 'grapes', as Masson called it, before meals, and bedtime prayers. 'God bless Mama, Papa, Uncle Reza, Darius and Christine (the cat), and help me to be a good boy; amen.' Then, Christine (the woman) took to reading a bit of her Bible before bed. These were extremely disturbing developments; clearly intended as irritants to impel me into the Bishop's clutches. I sent for Gaston.

"Right, now, we'll just do a bit of role play to prepare you for your visit. The more rehearsal the less apprehension on opening night," jolly Gaston assured me.

"If I get really nervous and throw up on the Bishop, do I get excommunicated?"

"This is going to be great fun! I'm so glad I'm here!"

"Shut up, Reza."

"Alright now, let's begin," Gaston cleared his throat, calling the farce to order. "Good afternoon, my son; what brings you here today?"

"Er…um, I hope I can persuade you to review the Chagny annulment. I wish to marry the Comtesse."

"Very good, Erik. Ah, Chagny…Chagny…yes, I happen to have the particulars of the case right here. Oh. I am afraid that there can be no annulment here, my son. I'm sorry; what did you say your name is?"

"Erik."

"Erik--?" Bishop Gaston looked at me expectantly.

"What?" I growled, irritated at the charade.

"You'll need to come up with a last name, Erik."

"Leroux. Whatever!"

"You see, M Leroux, there is a child. The annulment is not possible. The Comtesse is a married woman in the eyes of God and the Church."

"Alright. Thank you." I made a pretend bow to the pretend bishop.

"Erik!" Gaston cried.

"What?"

"You're supposed to explain to the bishop why the annulment can go forward…why the child is no impediment…" Gaston explained, looking at me hopefully once again.

I looked back blankly.

"Because the child is yours, man! Good Lord," Gaston shook his head. "You're not supposed to give up and walk out!"

"I don't think it's any of that nosy old celibate bastard's business, frankly," I sniffed.

Reza howled.

. . . 

"Erik, may I speak with you, please?"

"Certainly," I slammed my pencil down. Normally such a request from Christine would have panicked me, but things were not going swimmingly at the theatre. No matter how I redesigned the costumes, my ballerinas still looked like piglets, and someone had decided to repaint the dressing rooms; the fumes were dreadful and I had not approved the color. I suspected Carlotta; the color was a nauseating, unnatural pink. Who else would demand a repainting so soon after construction—and have their request honored? Finally, my managers were treating the pay raise I had 'requested' as a discretionary matter. I tried not to frown at Christine, but I probably was.

"Erik, I can't have you undermining me with Masson."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean yesterday, when I sat him in the corner, and you took me to task about whether it was really necessary."

"He's little, he doesn't understand—"

"He's going to grow up never understanding if you won't let me teach him. It does him no harm to sit in the corner, yet you act as if I'm killing him. He knows you can't stand it, and he works us one against the other, can't you see that?"

I did, actually, but I felt rather proud of it. It's proof of what a clever little man he is, isn't it? In my experience, manipulative behavior has an undeserved bad reputation. It's stood me quite well in my day. I understand Mama has to teach about table manners and et cetera; he will be a gentleman, after all, but he needs to learn other things too; manipulating effectively among them.

"Yes, you're right. But I think you're being too hard on him all of a sudden." I believe that was a fine concession on my part, and she should have let it lay. Naturally this was not to be.

"I'm being hard on him all of a sudden because he is insufferable all of a sudden. He thinks we all jump at his every whim! He cannot grow up to be like you, Erik—"

"I beg your pardon, Madame! I taught myself to be more of a gentleman without a woman's carping than your husband did with a proper upbringing!" I spat.

"Oh, no you don't! You think you'll get me arguing about Raoul and deflect my concerns about our son. I know how you work!"

"I work harder than I have to, thanks very much to Raoul," I grumbled.

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about my theater! I don't have time for this child-rearing nonsense! Do what you want, you're the mother!" I dismissed her with a wave of my arm and turned back to my pig sketches.

"Erik, there is so much wrong with what you just said, I have no idea where to begin," Christine snipped.

"Good; then leave."

"I will not. You may not order me around, and neither may your son. What has Raoul to do with your being overworked at the opera?"

"Would it have burned if it weren't for that sniveling fop?" I demanded.

"Did Raoul bring the chandelier down?"

"Yes, he did!"

"Erik!"

"Raoul refused to leave you alone. Time has proved that he was wrong; you are with me. Therefore, he is responsible."

"I see; Phantom Logic."

"Yes." Once again I attempted to return to work.

Christine was having none of it; she started in again. "Now, about your referring to civilizing our son being 'child-rearing nonsense'…it is not my sole responsibility as 'the mother'—particularly since you are the worst and most consistent offender in acceding to his tantrums."

"He is a little baby—"

"He is a precocious baby, going through a normal stage, from what I understand. If we don't begin to discipline him now, when he is little, how do you propose we control him when he is older?"

"He'll learn to control himself, as I did," I shrugged.

"What?" Christine fell to laughing hysterically. I was nonplussed.

"What the devil is wrong with you?" I frowned.

"You--control yourself? You murder people as if you were swatting flies! "

"Christine, I have already been taken to task for that, I'll thank you to remember. I consider it in very poor taste for you to bring it up again."

"Alright, but even leaving out your most heinous behaviors, I can still make my point." She had sobered somewhat, but now began to go hysterical on me again as she ticked my shortcomings off on her fingers. "You destroy buildings! You throw better tantrums than Masson does! You get nauseous every time you are confronted with something you don't want to face! You run away! Oh…my heavens!" she clutched her ribs.

"I fail to see what is funny—"

"No, you wouldn't," she sniffed, calming herself. "Erik, my love, I am sorry to have to tell you this, because I know you've never heard these words before, but you are wrong. Wrong," she smiled sweetly and kissed my pretend-nose. "You must change your mind about disciplining Masson, and the sooner the better, my love." She kissed my forehead. I had the distinct feeling that she was still laughing at me, or treating me like a senile old uncle.

"Now," she continued, "if he misbehaves on a walk, the walk is over. If he misbehaves about a toy or Christine, they will be separated. If he persists, he will go to the corner. If you disagree with something, we can discuss it out of hours, but never in front of Masson, please; we must support each other. Alright?"

"No."

"Would you like to go in the corner, too? I should have whacked your bottom from the start," she laughed, turning to leave me to my sketching.

"You may whack my bottom any time you like," I called after her. "I'm serious!"


	48. Chapter 48

My son began asking me difficult questions. I know that I was a precocious child, but Masson astounded me.

"Papa, why are you different?" We had fed the geese, and were sitting on a wall and swinging our feet.

"You mean, why do I look different?" He nodded. "Well, Son, some people are born and they can't see, or they can't hear, or there is something else than does not work properly. I was born like this."

I watched Masson think about that. "I was born like this," he said finally.

"Yes." I knew there was a question in there somewhere, but I could not guess what it was.

"Mama says I'm just like you, but I'm not," he announced, more confidently than the look on his face admitted. Ah, there was the question.

"No, Masson," I assured him. "You were born perfect inside and out. You will never be like me."

I saw the relief wash over his beautiful little face and tried to smile. How long had he been worrying, wondering if tomorrow was the day he would wake up ugly like Papa?

"Papa, what happened to Jesus?"

"I'm sorry, Masson, I don't know what you mean." Christine had begun dragging the boy to church. I knew it was an invitation to trouble.

"Why is He cruci-pied?" Ah. It's been awhile, but I reckon they still have that huge gory display as a focal point on the altar.

"Oh. Well, if someone commits a crime now, he has to go to prison. They put him in a little room and he can't see his friends, have any fun, or go anywhere."

"Like the corner chair," he replied miserably. He absolutely knew what prison felt like. It appeared my gift for drama and self-pity had been inherited.

"Yes. So, back when Jesus was alive, they would crucify really, really bad criminals, and the people in charge believed that Jesus was a really bad criminal."

Masson was horrified. "Is it a sin to cruci-pie Jesus?" Ah-ha, the Catholic propaganda was seeping in.

"Yes, I would say it probably is a sin to crucify Jesus, but they didn't know how special He was at the time. I suspect that many would say that it was a rather large mistake."

That was about the limit of my theological prowess; I advised him to take up Matters Spiritual with Christine. I didn't want to say something against the official propaganda and end up losing any privileges unwittingly. Not for a load of stuff and nonsense--at least I hope it's stuff and nonsense.

Look, I don't want to go to heaven. Not that I actually imagine myself to be on the guest list, but I hope when the carcass gives out they just feed me to the worms and that's the end of Erik. I don't want to go on in eternity, keeping company with a host of other beings that wouldn't give me the time of day when I was alive. And I certainly don't want to be best boy in the celestial choir, singing praises to the One who made me choose the booby prize from the face grab-bag. Christine would have a conniption if she heard me say that, but it's true.

At the same time he was solving Life's Deeper Questions with me, Masson was engaging in daily power struggles with his mother. Naturally, I had a theory, which Christine did not want to hear. It was my contention that what he actually took exception to was her stifling of his freedom of self-expression. I felt that if she allowed him to say No, Bad Mama, and what-have-you, while still insisting that the thing to which he took exception had to be, he would likely comply. I know I would; I grumble a lot, but I usually go along. I felt that all Masson really wanted was that his objection be duly noted. Christine was from the Old School, which dictated that Masson was to do what she said, and he was to be glad about it as well. Any problems he had, he was to keep to himself.

This led to increasingly tense scenes between Christine and me. She insisted I was taking his side and spoiling him. I tried to tell her that our son was possessed of an artist's soul, and she was crushing his creative spirit by expecting him to march in lockstep. He would never be a soldier, I told her; he would be a poet.

She countered by saying he would be a self-absorbed tyrant like his father.

I would counter with something like, Well, if that's what you think, what does that make you for wanting to marry me? My facile wit and razor tongue usually got the better of Christine in an argument, but ultimately it was a hollow victory.

I used to be a much cannier fellow, always on the lookout for pitfalls and traps. I still am, when it comes to the opera, or when I'm in public, especially with Masson. But with Christine, I seem to charge willy-nilly into situations that cannot but bring me to some grief. Either senile dementia is having a premature effect, or Christine has damaged me somehow. Perhaps the monks had it right all along, and dealings with women deplete a man's faculties.

As the day of Darius and Anci's wedding neared, Christine grew progressively more peevish. I knew she was obsessed with the annulment; the clock was ticking before she'd accost me about my appointment with the bishop. This is a dreadful confession, akin to naming a male cat 'Christine', but I had become quite fond of the foamy lavender bath; it really did seem to relax me and help me think. I actually came up with a workable idea for the piggy ballerinas in the tub. Anyway, I stewed in my lavender froth about the annulment, looking for some heretofore undiscovered weasel room.

It came to me that I was all but out of weasel room. It looked like telling the truth might be the best option yet again. Right, last time I told the truth, I got all upset, heaved my guts, and did not get what I wanted short term; ie, Christine did not return to the opera. Long term she still loved me even though I was useless to her. This time, I probably would not get what I wanted either, and I would probably get all upset and heave. But I would get points for bringing the matter up, rather than waiting for her to confront me and force me to admit that I'm a selfish, cowardly git.

Christine was reading her Bible before bed; it seemed an apropos moment.

"Christine, about the annulment," I opened.

"Oh?" She asked brightly. "Did you speak with the bishop?" She set her book aside with a bit of a smile.

"Um, no. I'm…I want to marry you but I don't want to talk to the bishop. I'm not much for clerics," I confessed.

"You're afraid to speak to the bishop. You want to marry me, but you can't do this one little thing for me," she deadpanned ominously.

"It's not a little thing, Christine! Not for me! He's going to ask if I'm Catholic; what do I tell him?"

"Everyone's Catholic, Erik," she sighed.

"I don't know that. What if I'm Jewish?"

"Erik. Please don't be stupid. If you were Jewish, I am sure you and I would know," Christine frowned.

"Well, what if my loving mother never got around to…you know…"

"Erik, just tell the bishop you're Catholic, you ninny!"

"Next he'll want to know if I'm baptized, and communioned, and confirmed, and all that nonsense, and what do I tell him then?"

"Oh." Christine frowned slightly, deep in thought.

"Now you see my point!" I felt certain this would exonerate me.

"Well, that being the case, you'll have to go to catechism anyway before we can marry in the Church," she replied blithely. "So there's no harm in telling the bishop the truth, darling." She smiled, believing the problem to be solved.

"I don't want to go to catechism."

"If you don't go to catechism, we cannot marry." I had never seen Christine look the way she did: eyes narrowed to slits, lips tightly pursed.

Suddenly I felt hot and dizzy. I mentioned that I felt hot and dizzy, but her face remained unchanged. I could have dropped over dead and she still would have been there, making her deadly viper face at me.

"Could they just quiz me and pass me if I do alright?" I asked hopefully.

Stone Woman was unmoved. "So you're saying you won't marry me."

"No! No, Christine, I'm not saying that at all. I—" I made the mistake of reaching for her.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me!" she hissed.

"You know I love you; of course I want to marry you," I protested.

"Who is it?" she demanded.

"No, no! Please, Christine, I swear on my life there's no one!"

Christine's eyes were about to overflow. "I've been such a fool, believing in you. You've made me a whore."

"Christine, no! Angel, look, we can get up tomorrow morning and be married in a civil ceremony!" I had no idea what was happening; I mean, it was so horrible I couldn't grasp it.

"I don't want to be married before a clerk; that's nothing. That is just the same as what I've been doing all this time with you!" She turned away and wept silently into her hands.

"Christine—"

"No, Erik," she interrupted. "You've deceived me again. No more. Please leave."

"Darling, let me stay," I pleaded. "I won't—"

She whirled on me angrily. "Get out of my bed; you've had your last bit of free fluff!" she hissed. Her tiny feet darted toward me under the covers. I tried to parry her kicks, but finally I had to scuttle away. She turned away again, pulling the blanket up to her ears.

"You've got it all wrong, Christine," I whispered. I think she heard me, but I couldn't be sure. She gave no sign.

I knew I would not sleep, so I dressed and went to the opera. I felt raw and bruised; I was devastated, but I couldn't believe Christine's words were final. In my mind, there was no question but that we had to reconcile; we had Masson between us. Meanwhile, I had to occupy my mind, so as not to dwell on this debacle.

I felt better just walking my familiar catacombs. I careened briefly down a mental path holding that the entire problem was that I'd left my lair; that I should be living down below with Christine and Masson. Of course, that would make everything perfect.

Could Christine be right, I wondered. Could it be that I really don't want to marry her if I won't do this one thing for her? I walked and considered as objectively as I could—I admit I'm not objective—and I came away with No. Christine's not right; I want her as desperately as ever. But equal to that, I don't want to experience all the feelings of humiliation and guilt that I will surely feel if I try after all these years to get right with the Church. I did not want to return to that state of ignominy again; feel it chewing on my guts like a live rat inside me. No, not even for Christine will I open the valve and let my sense of myself, fragile as it is, drain away.

I began to feel angry at Christine for failing to see my position. Who more than Christine should know how painful it would be for me? Then I remembered the absurd tattoo conversation. It seemed she wanted me to suffer; but why?

Nursing my resentment, I played a scenario in which we had a huge argument, where I accused her of wanting to see me suffer. Of course, in these reveries I always have the perfect retort; everything is marvelously theatrical, eventually Christine is appropriately contrite, and I am magnanimous in my forgiveness. Playing the scenario to its logical conclusion gave me a taste for a bit of soft. I was feeling quite deprived; what with 'discussing' Masson's discipline and et cetera, I was sure it had been at least a week. Call me a whiner if you like, but I was simply unaccustomed to such privations anymore.

Finding myself in the opera house at something like eleven at night, it was rather an embarrassment of riches. Plump pink piggies, the odd bony ones like my dear Christine…I laughed aloud when it occurred to me that perhaps I should call on Signora Giudicelli. I did not intend to harm anyone—I mean, aside from the obvious; I just wanted a bit of fun. A bound, struggling victim held a delicious, forbidden charm that could not be duplicated with a willing, interested partner. At least, that had been my limited experience with the mad Creole.

Right. I decided that anyone would do; after all, I was not looking for someone to escort to a coming-out ball. I wasn't going to see her anyway; I intended for it to be black as my caverns could go. I made my way upstairs. I would wait in the vicinity of overheard conversations and see what happened by.

I couldn't do it. As I skulked there in the dark, listening to the girls' chirps and giggles, I had precious little to occupy my mind. Thus, my thoughts turned to my precious boy. Unbidden, the thought came: 'Is this what you want Masson to grow up to be?'

I had to scramble down the corridor with my hands clapped over my mouth so no one would hear the inhuman sobs struggling to escape my body. I don't know how long I lay crumpled on the damp stone floor, shivering and moaning. When I couldn't cry anymore, I dragged myself home, clinging to the shadows, shrinking in alleys; a pariah.


	49. Chapter 49

Small house though it was, Christine succeeded in avoiding me for nearly three days after our argument. It was always a bad time, or we were not alone, or Masson needed seeing to. Finally I managed to waylay her in the corridor outside our former bedroom. I caught her by the arm as she prepared to breeze past me. She snatched it out of my grasp violently.

"Christine, we must talk," I insisted.

"There is nothing to talk about until you've seen the bishop." Her eyes were cold.

"But we can't behave this way."

She considered; nodded. "You're right."

I exhaled deeply, relieved.

But then she continued. "I'll have to find someplace else." Her face darkened; she raised her hand to her furrowed brow. "I wonder how much it costs to let a flat," she sighed.

"No, Christine, you can't leave!"

"Well, I can't stay here. Reza is your friend, I can't deprive him of your company," she declared flatly. I honestly had no idea if she was pretending to misunderstand to hurt me, or if she genuinely thought I was discussing physical living arrangements.

"You can't shut me out; Masson needs us both. He needs a father," I urged.

"I didn't say he wouldn't have a father," she replied flatly. "It doesn't have to be you."

"What? What are you saying? He knows me! We love each other."

"Mm." She agreed as if what I'd said had no bearing on anything. I felt as if I was in a foreign land where I could not understand the street signs.

"You'd take my son away from me? You would do that?"

This infuriated her. "Oh, I see; very nice! All you're worried about is your precious son!" she spat.

Rage bubbled in my guts and prickled up and down my spine. "Christine, if you would consider carefully, I'm sure you would realize that I've been worried about you since you were in books. That's a most obtuse thing to say." I said this in as controlled a way as I could.

"Oh, I'm obtuse now?" she flared.

"No, for heaven's sake, are you determined to take absolutely everything I say as cause to fight? Christine, please, come to the clerk's office with me; let's have the civil ceremony, as a show of my good faith."

She began to cry. "I want to go to heaven, Erik!"

What struck me at that moment was how incredibly compartmentalized Christine's brain was. That day long ago in my lair, she had told me that I had a way to make things alright in my own mind...yes? Suddenly she had to be married in the church; her immortal salvation depended upon my telling the bishop that Masson was my son. What? My cranium was about to explode.

"Christine, for Christ's sake, you've been living in adultery for—"

"But I don't want it to be like that! I want to be properly married and be forgiven!" she wailed. "That's the difference between you and me; I want to be good!"

I recoiled from her words as though she'd slapped me. I stared at her stupidly, open-mouthed and stunned. I had no physical sensation of myself anymore; I was floating, incorporeal.

"You really do think I'm a monster after all," I murmured. I drifted away from her, an opera ghost once again.

"Erik, I'm quite sure she didn't mean it the way it sounded," Reza protested. "How could she have been with you all this time if she really felt that way?"

"I have no idea, Reza. If we were talking about a man, what you say would make sense. MEN make sense, but women? Goddammit, this has been a mistake from the beginning," I wagged my finger at him, nodding. "I knew it, too. Somewhere deep down there was a little voice saying DON'T DO IT ERIK! Did I listen? No. Am I an idiot? Yes."

The pendulum of my mind had been swinging wildly between abject grief and blind fury ever since I'd left Christine in the hallway hours before. When I was grieving, I sided with Reza that there had to be some other explanation; I just couldn't believe it. But when I was angry…the urge to do violence was so strong I had to grip the arms of my chair, lest I rush from the house and go on a rampage.

"Well, I am holding the thought that once you two have a bit of time to cool off, you'll be able to talk things through. I'm praying for it."

"We have to talk things through somehow. I don't intend to lose my son; I can't lose my son."

Reza sat with me in companionable silence while I cried.

Several days later, I paced in the front hall while Reza waited in the carriage to take us to Darius' wedding. Nothing. More nothing. I stuck my head out the door and gave Reza a sign to wait just another moment. I took the stairs two at a time and threw the bedroom door open.

They were sitting on the bed, playing, and neither one in fine clothes.

"What the devil are you doing? We're going to be late for the wedding!"

"We're not going to the wedding. They're your friends," she said pointedly. Instantly, I was furious.

"Darius will be hurt if you're not there. I am not going to let you ruin his day." I tore her closet door open, dug through for a suitable dress. I found a lavender and lace floral that would do. I threw it onto the bed and appraised the condition of her hair. "Put that on. Your hair looks alright."

"I told you—"

"You can dress yourself, or I can help you, Darling," I threatened through clenched teeth.

Fortunately, she realized that I was serious. I dressed Masson and we were off in about ten minutes. I seethed the entire way in the carriage. Masson bounced with excitement.

Anci looked very pretty, if overwhelmed. Darius was positively glowing with pride. I was so very happy for them. While she put on a good show for the couple and the other guests, Christine availed herself of the opportunity to glare at me at every turn.

It was a traditional Persian celebration; it seemed every Persian in Paris was there. There was limitless fabulous food, the intoxicating rhythms of Eastern music, and comely entertainment. Masson was transfixed by the dancing girls.

"Papa, look," he whispered, awestruck.

"Yes, I see."

"Pretty, I fell in love with her." He said this about each performer in turn, but he was especially fond of the 'red sparkly one'.

My son was the hit of the party; everyone was amazed at the darling, articulate angel child with the beautiful curls. I found a marvelous way to infuriate Christine. I picked him up and carried him around, introducing him to everyone. On their break, all five of the dancers ringed around Masson and me, giggling and cooing. They passed him around like a chubby bottle of wine; pinching his cheeks, hugging and kissing him. He smiled and was his most charming self, resting his fat baby paws on their bejeweled bosoms. I was absolutely positive he knew what he was doing. Christine seethed from across the room; silly girl. The dancers were not there for me—but it was an interesting lesson. Babies make excellent bait.

I remained in a foul mood; Christine and I spoke as little as possible. After some days of this, I noticed Masson becoming weepier and more clingy; if he lost sight of Christine the kitty he went hysterical; he did not venture so far away when we took our walks, and he was demanding twenty-four hour access to Christine's breasts again. No matter how careful we were, trying to pretend all was well, our son was not fooled. He sensed it was not right with Mama and Papa.

"Christine, do you see how this is affecting him?" I murmured in passing when we'd returned from the park one day.

"You don't know that's what it is; perhaps he's teething again."

"No, you're wrong. I do know what it is, it's us!" I argued.

"You're an expert on children now?" she smirked.

"No; but I know him, and so do you. You know he's upset; you just can't bring yourself to agree with me."

"Once again, it's all about Masson," she sighed. "Well, since he's the center of the universe, let me get him his bath."


	50. Chapter 50

"His Grace will see you now." The snooty little friar had just a tinge of terror around the corners of his eyes which pleased me greatly.

I had secured my interview with Cardinal Richelieu speedily; apparently there are fewer faithful to minister to than I'd imagined. Chalk one up for us unwashed heathens. As I followed Brother Mouse down the hallowed halls, I reflected that I was holding up remarkably well. I didn't feel nauseous or dizzy at all; unless my gut was planning a last-minute churn, I felt I would be alright. I did not fool myself by imagining some newly found courage; no, I knew it was the slow-simmering rage for which I had yet to find an outlet. I promised myself that if I handled the interview well I would treat myself to some sort of violent rampage. Meanwhile, I delighted in frightening innocent people and being mean and surly whenever possible. Childish, I know; but compared to murdering a third of the city, I believe I was a model of self-restraint.

"His Grace Bertrand, Bishop Richard," Brother Mouse intoned.

Wheeeee! "Thank you," I purred, slithering past him into The Presence.

His Grace fairly leapt from his desk, aghast. Apparently my reputation had preceded me again; ah, the price of fame.

"I know you!" He crossed himself about a thousand times in the span of an instant. Amazing. "Fiend! Murderer!"

"Yes, Your Grace," I replied, eyes downcast. "It is I, but I vow I mean Your Grace no harm. I am not the man I was the night the opera burned. It is about this transformation that I would speak with Your Grace." I remained in what I hoped was a suitably penitent attitude until His Grace regained his holy composure.

Finally, he said, "You may approach, my son," with a barely quavering voice.

I knelt, kissed his ring in what I hoped simulated reverence, and managed not to cough up a hairball on the exquisite carpet.

"Rise, my son. Please be seated."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Bishop Richard had returned to the dignity of his office. He sat and regarded me silently. This prince of the Church was likely ten years my senior; his nose and cheeks belied a man who enjoyed a good bottle of wine. His hands were graceful and beautifully sculpted; his grooming was immaculate; I was certain he had never done an honest day's work in his life.

"What is your name, Sir?"

"Erik Rouen, Your Grace."

"Rouen?"

I nodded. "I understand I was born there, Your Grace. My mother, God rest her soul, never told me…" I paused and lowered my head, unable to continue.

"There is no need for shame here, Erik. We are all God's children."

I sniffed convincingly and managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Your Grace." I was feeling slightly queasy now; my own performance was making me sick, and I hadn't even gotten to the good part yet.

"Tell me what brings you here."

"Your Grace, it is the love of a saintly woman that has brought me to the Church. I don't know…is it alright to admit such a thing?" I worried.

He smiled knowingly, happy to be speaking in his area of expertise. "Of course, my son; quite often it happens that the love of a Christian woman will turn a man toward God. I am not a man _of_ the world, but I am a man _in_ the world. You may speak freely," he reassured me.

"We've sinned, Your Grace," I paused, nearly overcome. The hairball was threatening again. "She left her husband. We have a son. I nearly dragged her down with me, but she never despaired of me; she never lost faith. I've been a bad man…a horrible man! But now I've seen the error of my ways, thanks to Christine, and I want to make it right. I want to marry her, Your Grace. When I think of all the shame she's suffered for my sake…"

This was the point in the performance at which I dissolved into a blubbering mess. I pulled out my handkerchief, apologizing profusely. He waited patiently for me to compose myself.

"I want to marry her," I repeated, sniffing. "But there was some trouble with her annulment. I don't understand it all," I admitted.

"I see." He paused, thoughtful. "And her husband's name?"

"Chagny."

"Oh yes!" He cleared his throat and became quite grave. "Yes," he repeated. "Ah, John," he called to the mouse standing just inside the door, awaiting his master's summons. John scuttled over.

"Will you please fetch me the particulars of the Comte de Chagny's petition?"

We sat in uncomfortable silence; I felt the lack of ecumenical small talk boded ill for my case, but I was not particularly worried yet. The Trap-Door lover always has multiple plans of attack. I _would _have the annulment; it was simply a question of _how_.

I availed myself of the opportunity to observe my surroundings. The rugs on the floor were as nice as anything I'd seen in Persia. There was a sideboard holding a cut crystal decanter and glasses. The furnishings were of richly carved, fine mahogany. The artwork on the walls was excellent; he had a shelf full of delicious-looking books. His vestments were lace-trimmed and flawlessly tailored. His Grace was obviously a man of impeccable taste, and somehow he managed to find the wherewithal to indulge himself in this regard. I reflected that we might have made enjoyable companions under different circumstances.

John the Mouse scurried in with the Chagny file. The Bishop perused it thoughtfully.

Finally, he closed the folder.

"There is a child; an annulment is quite impossible. Do you see?"

"The child is mine, Your Grace. She left her husband in the fourth month of the marriage. She has been with me ever since."

He was clearly skeptical. "If this was so, why wait until now to bring it to our attention? Surely the Comte--"

"I told you I'm a bad man, Your Grace," I confessed. "When I learned what I'd done…I abandoned her! I…couldn't face the thought of…what if he was like me?" I had to pause to compose myself again. "Naturally, when the annulment was rescinded, the Comte did not have the heart to heap further disgrace on Christine. He is such an example for me to aspire to, Your Grace. A kinder, more generous friend to Christine could not be found anywhere."

If I was not struck dead on the spot for that lie, I never shall be. I continued.

"When I returned, the child was nearly a year old. It has been a hard road to convince Christine of my good faith, and that I have changed my ways. You understand, Your Grace; I've broken her heart so many times."

"Is the child…"

"He is a beautiful, normal child, thanks be to God, Your Grace. And baptized in the Church; his mother is teaching him well."

The Bishop pondered arcane theological matters for some time before he spoke.

"With an annulment, you two could confess your sins and be forgiven, and marry in the Church. But as far as the child is concerned, he is a bastard, conceived in sin; nothing can change that."

I do not know what held me in the chair when I could have—should have—wanted desperately to--bound over the desk and squeeze his neck until his eyes popped from their sockets. Yes, I do know: I wanted that goddamned annulment, and I refused to let my temper work against me. I swore to myself that once Christine had her heavenly passport in her virtuous little hands, and Jesus had restored her maidenhead, I would return and kill this flaming carrion turd bishop from the deepest realms of hell. Not for Christine; not for Masson. FOR ME.

"I understand, Your Grace." I tried to control my trembling.

"You two should not marry. You are an occasion to sin to her, this is clear; and she should return to her God-given husband, the Comte. If she cannot, she should remain in seclusion until her husband is dead," he oozed opprobrium at me.

"But if we can't marry, we'll continue in sin," I protested.

"Well, you mustn't! You must separate immediately!" The Bishop rose briskly. The interview was concluded, or so he thought. I knelt and kissed his disgusting ring again, appropriately contrite.

"And you, Sir, you must make a full confession and do your penance!"

"Yes, Your Grace."

He said, 'God Bless You', but it sounded more like, 'Get the devil out of here'.

I was almost to the door when I turned.

"Your Grace? If I may…it's about my penance."

"Yes," he replied, none too patiently. I believe I was cutting into his tea time.

"I am a fairly wealthy man, Your Grace." I approached him again. "I know that the Church does missionary work abroad, cares for the sick and orphans. I know there are poor, needy parishes even in our own diocese. I understand that one cannot buy redemption, but I wonder, if I made a gift with a full and contrite heart…do you suppose that God could forgive a monster like me? "

Hah. I thought I saw a twinkle in his eye. _'Passerino, go away; for the trap is set and waits for its prey.'_

"Of course, my son. God forgives all who make an honest act of contrition, but you must endeavor to not sin again," he admonished.

"Yes, I understand," I nodded, looking hopeful.

"Well then, I am certain that God would accept your gift, and the parish would put it to good use. Ah, what were you thinking of—"

"Half a million francs; it's not much, but—"

"_Half a million francs?_" He struggled for control. He looked like Masson at the wedding, surrounded by the dancing girls. "I shall have the sisters say a novena for you!"

"No, no, please, Your Grace; I would not want anyone to know of this. Please, could it be our secret?"

"Of course, my son," he loved me again. "I understand perfectly. I shall remember you in my prayers, that you should be richly blessed."

"May I bring it directly to you, tomorrow, Your Grace?" I asked, all innocence.

"What, no bank letter of credit?" he was astounded.

"No, I prefer the anonymity of real paper money."

"Come whenever you like."

When I returned the next day, the Bishop handed me several documents across his desk.

The first was a letter, dated that very day. It stated that His Grace had been inspired that he had been remiss in overturning the decision of the Holy Father in Rome, regarding the matter of the annulment of the marriage of the Comte and Comtesse de Chagny, the Holy Father being the representative of Our Blessed Savior on earth, and therefore the ultimate authority on such matters. Consequently, the annulment of the annulment was annulled. (It didn't actually say that, but I wished it had.)

The second was the Official Document Itself. It did look quite official, and it said that Raoul and Christine had never actually been married in the eyes of the Church. Apparently they did not really understand what they were doing, presumably because they were too young. In Raoul's case, I could certainly argue the point that he'd never be old enough to know what he was doing, and sometimes I wonder about Christine as well.

His Grace blessed me numerous times and told me that he would forward Raoul's copies of the documents. It seemed a good time to bring up the sticky matter of my having not been communioned, confirmed, et cetera. His Grace assured me there would be no trouble about that; I could be communioned and confirmed simultaneously. I worried about catechism classes. Not at all, he assured me. John the Mouse fetched me a catechism book to read. The Bishop told me to let him know when we'd located a priest for the wedding; he'd see to it. Another ring kiss and I was home free.

Imagine me, the Opera Ghost, having a Bishop chum to smooth my way. I sang all the way home. I did not rush to Christine, lift her into the air and twirl her around. I took the documents to my room, secreted them with some other papers until the time was right, and located Reza.

"I need a favor."

"Oh god, no. What have you done?"

"My oldest, dearest friend, your confidence moves me to tears. I have not done anything. I would some like time to speak with Christine alone. Completely alone. Uninterruptibly alone. Not-a-soul-around alone."

"Ah. AH."

"Right. Take Masson to the zoo tomorrow afternoon? Give him whatever he wants; the longer you can keep him the better, but I need at least two hours."

"I can do this," he beamed. I grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed each cheek in turn.

"I love you." I ran off to fetch Masson and Christine the cat; we had an appointment with our ducks.

"Hah! You say that now, you shameless hussy!" he called after me.

Christine was sitting at the pond's edge, flicking his tail and chattering at the ducks. The ducks were all familiar with Christine, they did not care about him anymore. Masson and I were sitting on our wall, swinging our feet. This was when we did our best talking.

"Why are you and Mama angry?"

"What makes you say that, Masson?"

"Mama doesn't sing anymore, and she doesn't twinkle at you. And your eyes are black, and you're hard when you pick me up."

Ah, Christine? He's not teething.

"Sometimes grown-ups quarrel, just like you and Mama quarrel, hm? Perhaps she thinks one thing and I think the other. Most of the time we can make a deal, but sometimes, neither one of us wants to make a deal. But it doesn't have anything to do with you, or anyone except Mama and me, and I love her just the same as ever."

He threw himself into my lap.

"Make a deal, Papa, please!"

"I will; I plan to." Instantly he was tugging at my lapels.

"Now, come home now!"

"Not today, son; not now. Very soon, I promise."

"NO! NOW!" Instantly, he was enraged.

"Masson, the time is not right now. I promise you that I will take care of it."

"NOW!" he wailed, throwing himself at me. He was trying to knock me off the wall.

"Right. Time to go. Come along, Christine." I picked him up like a sack of sand; a kicking, flailing, screaming sack of sand.

"You may not throw yourself at people that way, son." He was wriggling strangely; when I looked down I realized he was trying to pull himself up _in order to bite me_.

"No, sir," I growled, flipping him onto my knee even as I spoke. I gave him a couple of good smacks. It was a lovely afternoon; there were flocks of people in the park. Every single one was staring at the man murdering the screeching cherub. I resumed my walk home. Christine cut a wide swath and glared hatefully at me.

"Should you attempt that again, Masson, we can repeat the exercise as often as you like."

He chose to repeat it once more, went absolutely hysterical, turned red and threw up. My son. By the last block he was snuffling and moaning, "Papa…Papa…" He had exhausted himself, and so was passed out when we arrived home. I plopped the sweaty, stinky parcel into Christine the woman's arms. She frowned at his condition, and at me.

"He had a fit. He tried to bite me. I beat his bottom, twice. If you'll excuse me, I have to change. I have a grass stain on my trousers." I skirted around her and climbed the stairs.


	51. Chapter 51

The morning had finally crawled by; Masson and Reza were on their way to the zoo.

Christine was in the library, reading 'How to Murder Your Man in His Bed' or something. She was wearing her yellow dress, one of my favorites. I entered the room silently, startling her when I appeared in her periphery. She frowned briefly, but I refused to break eye contact, which unnerved her. Softly, I began to sing.

_Alas, my love, you do me wrong,_

_To cast me off discourteously._

_For I have loved you well and long, _

_Delighting in your company._

"Oh, no," she sighed.

_Greensleeves was all my joy_

_Greensleeves was my delight_

_Greensleeves was my heart of gold,_

_And who but my lady Greensleeves._

Approaching her, I extended my hand.

_Your vows you've broken, like my heart,_

_Oh, why did you so enrapture me?_

_Now I remain in a world apart_

_But my heart remains in captivity._

She closed her eyes to avoid my gaze, but she could not prevent my voice penetrating her.

_I have been ready at your hand,_

_To grant whatever you would crave,_

_I have both wagered life and land,_

_Your love and goodwill for to have._

Her eyes opened dreamily and she took my hand, blushing under my gaze.

_If you intend thus to disdain,_

_It does the more enrapture me,_

_And even so, I still remain_

_A lover in captivity._

I finished standing behind her, arms around her, the hands of a princess in my work-roughened grasp. She shuddered as I breathed against her neck.

_Greensleeves was all my joy_

_Greensleeves was my delight_

_Greensleeves was my heart of gold,_

_And who but my lady Greensleeves._

She turned toward me, but I backed away to hold her at arm's length. I kissed both her hands; backs, then palms. I kissed her wrists, inside her elbows, then her neck. Her hands came round my neck, pleading wordlessly for my lips on hers. I did not disappoint her. It had been so many days since I'd felt her, tasted her, I was starving.

"Remember when all we had was a kiss, Christine?" I whispered. She buried her face against me, my little girl again. I stroked her back, feeling comfortable and normal.

"Take me upstairs," she spoke so softly I could scarcely hear her.

I shook my head. "Is that all you think I want?"

"It's what I want," she admitted.

"But I want more."

"What more?" she asked. She yanked my shirt from my trousers petulantly. She wanted to feel my skin under her fingers. "What do you want?"

"Everything; remember?" I repeated those words I'd spoken in her dressing room, seemingly lifetimes ago. "You must love me, Christine."

"You know I love you," she insisted.

"I don't; not anymore," I reminded her, as gently as I could. "I don't really mind if you mistreat me, so long as you love me," I smiled.

Christine grabbed handfuls of my lapels. "Let me be sorry."

I took her upstairs then. She wept silently as I loved her. She seemed a virgin in my arms, timid and unsure. She clung to me almost desperately, as if she needed to draw strength from me. I felt something give way between us, her final defenses crumbling. Suddenly I realized that she trusted me again, completely, for the first time since I'd returned from Budapest. At last, perhaps, we could move on.

I left Christine sleeping when I heard Masson thumping upstairs, catching him just outside the door.

"Ssshhh, Mama's taking a nap."

"GRRRR!"

"Someone had a wonderful time at the zoo, I see."

"I saw pink birds! Biiiig lions! GRRRR! ROWR! Where's Christine?"

Likely Christine was on his way to Masson, even as Masson ran off in search of Christine. That cat adored him; it was a marvel.

I collected the annulment and the letter from my room and laid them on the pillow next to Christine. Kissing her forehead, I whispered, "I must go, Masson's home."

She moaned with displeasure and threw her arms around me. "Come back…" A blanketed leg swung out in search of mine.

"Later, I promise."

I paused outside the kitchen. Masson was instructing our Darius substitute, Silke, in the care and feeding of Christine.

"You cook it."

I peered into the kitchen surreptitiously. Masson was banging through the cabinet, fishing out the cat-liver-cooking-pan.

"Cook it?" Silke accepted the pan from him skeptically.

"Mm. Darius puts that flavor in it." He indicated the spices.

"Spices? For the cat?" Poor woman. "What spices?"

"I show you."

He reached out for her to lift him onto the counter. Little weasel; Darius would never stand for a baby bottom on his counter. On his way to the spices, Masson availed himself of the opportunity to feel Silke up. She started a bit, but gazing into the sweet baby eyes he made at her--surely she'd imagined the entire thing. Right, time to make my entrance.

"No, sir. Off the counter." Off the hired help as well.

"I'm sorry, Sir." Silke blushed furiously.

"Not at all; you didn't know my son is a rank opportunist," I smiled, swinging him down.

"No! I need to help!" he frowned, gearing up for a fit.

"I'll take care of it, Son. It's garlic and parsley that Christine gets in his dinner," I handed the containers to Masson, and the crisis was averted.

"Garlic parlsey."

"Close enough," I smiled, producing a chocolate coin for him, and one for Silke.

"Wheee, Papa!" He raced off, confident that Christine would not be forced to consume raw liver. "UNCLE REZAAAA!"

"Thank you," Silke gave a little curtsey; charming. No one was so formal in our household; I feared we'd spoil her for all other employers.

"No; thank you. You must let us know if Masson becomes too much of a despot."

"Oh, no," she glowed, hooked already. "He is a beautiful child!"

"Indeed," I replied.

"And so clever!" she gushed.

"You think so?" I asked innocently, putting the kettle on for tea.

"Oh no, Sir, let me do that, please," Silke fretted.

"Thank you, Silke, I—"

Suddenly the air was rent with a feminine squeal overhead.

"Ah, that will be the Comtesse; if you'll excuse me."

Christine sat on the stairs, disheveled, dressing-gowned, clutching her annulment tightly. I moved onto the step below her and touched her cheek.

"Angel?"

"Happy tears," she sniffed. She squeezed me so tightly I could scarcely breathe, and began making suggestions I felt reasonably sure I could not accommodate on the stairway. I was just about to remind her that we were no longer alone in the house when Masson announced himself with an outraged shriek.

"MAA-MAA!" He was headed toward me like a mad rhino.

"Mama's alright, Masson," I assured him, giving way so he could see for himself.

"Mama's fine," Christine echoed. She looked at me with obvious regret as Masson climbed into her lap. He glared at me, fishing inside her dressing gown possessively. I love you and all, Papa, but…

"Someone's getting a bit old for this nonsense," I noted.

"Oh, but things have been so…"

"Yes, well, that's life, isn't it? There's always something going on that's not exactly tea and cakes. I wish I could just grab—"

"Erik!"

"Right. Well. I think it's about time, is all," I grumbled.

Christine touched foreheads with me. His Majesty offered no objection; neither would I have done if I had a handful of breast.

"I adore you," she whispered. I gasped, too moved to speak.

"Mama, did you and Papa make a deal?"

Christine looked from Masson to me, bewildered.

"Yes, Son, we made a deal," I replied.

"YAY! DEAL! DEAL!"

"It was a preliminary agreement, however; I suspect we'll want to enter into more detailed negotiations at the first opportunity," I added pointedly.

Christine's eyes danced. "Most definitely; the sooner the better."


	52. Chapter 52

To call it the day from hell did not even approach it. I had walked the halls all night with Masson, who had his first earache. Thankfully, he passed out immediately after the doctor left him. I was just about to lie down myself when Christine, newly pregnant, bolted for the bathroom. Unlike the early days of her pregnancy with Masson—when she was the picture of health—this time she stayed queasy until noon. Under the circumstances, it hardly seemed chivalrous to turn over and try to sleep, never mind that she'd slept like the dead while I was up with Masson. That was not the sort of argument which fared very well with a woman in her state. I fetched her some soda crackers and a bit of ginger tea and staggered back to the kitchen.

I was only able to coax a few drops from the carafe. I pulled a face and griped at the empty kitchen: "What? No goddamned coffee?"

Darius shuffled past me in his bedroom slippers, snatching the carafe from me sullenly.

"I just finished making an omelette," he hissed. "I'm on it."

Well, if you hadn't got her That Way the first night you hung your trousers on the chair, you wouldn't be in this fix right now, would you? I thought. Clearly, there were far too many pregnant people in the house, but as I saw it, fresh coffee is of an infinitely higher priority than Anci's frigging omelette. We glared at each other like tomcats. Darius had turned a right surly bastard since he'd gotten himself a woman.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Reza sashayed in, perfectly groomed and well-rested. We both wheeled on him, startling him.

"What the devil do you mean, killing the coffee?" I demanded. "Have you gone mad?"

"Erik, you look a mess. So do you, Darius," he chuckled.

"You may die today," I threatened.

"Hm. You know, my friend, I think you may be too old for this."

"I'm having a bath," I growled. "There'd better be coffee when I get back!"

Darius grumbled something I didn't catch, cheeky bastard.

I started to doze in the tub, nearly drowning myself. As I shuffled back into my room, Christine leapt from my coffin and zipped back into the bedroom.

"Get out of my box, you fiend."

He had been off his food and peevish since Masson was ill, but I didn't care. The bastard had taken to clawing my posh velvet lining. I leaned over to inspect the coffin for damage. Running my hand over the lining, I contacted a warm, wet spot.

"Oh, sweet suffering Christ," I howled. I flung open the bedroom door. The bastard was curled up with his baby, one fiendish eye cracked at me, tail tip flicking.

"I'll catch you alone one day," I promised him. "I know you understand me."

There was nothing for it, my coffin was ruined. That goddam box was practically new. The one before had lasted me, what, twenty years or something. I humped it downstairs and out into the back garden.

"What happened?" Reza inquired as I poured myself a cup.

"Nothing. We're having _chat au vin_ for supper."

"Was that the doctor earlier? How is Masson?"

"He said it's always worse at night," I advised. "Chamomile tea, warm olive oil in the ear, no more sucking—"

"Oh my, he'll be delighted to hear that," Reza worried. In truth, it did not bode well for us when the little tyrant received that bit of good news. It was well past time, with another one on the way, but even so, Masson would not be amused. Not that I blamed him.

"Indeed. Doctor says it pulls on the ear. Time for the Big Boy Cup, full time."

"God help us all."

"Mm. We agreed not to mention the new baby until he notices Christine changing. Good thing, considering this, or he'd hate the kid before it's born."

I returned to my coffin maker friend and got another just like the last. He was a good chap, never asked any questions. He apologized that he could not have it for several days, which was fine. I didn't plan on having myself evicted from the bed anytime soon, but then again, who could say?

I popped into the opera on the way home, picked up my salary and stopped at the chocolate shop. Next stop, Christine's croissants and fig preserves. It was pleasant to indulge in these little forays for delicacies. I love spoiling my princess, and it is so infrequently that she allows me to do it.

Last stop before home was dropping a note for my bosom pal, Bishop Richard. We were getting married in two weeks; Christine was petrified of looking pregnant for her wedding. Under the circumstances it seemed a bit of a moot point, but this was another case of feminine mental gymnastics that my feeble masculine mind could not comprehend. When I'd tried to point out to Christine that we could always wait until after the baby came—thereby saving her the stress and having to rush—she had an hysterical episode that would have made Masson proud. If I've learned nothing else, I hope I have learned When To Drop It.

Reza was throwing us a Persian gala like Darius and Anci had. Masson was beside himself about more sparkly ladies, Christine was looking forward to being treated like a queen, and I couldn't wait for the food.

When I entered the house, Masson was seated on the bottom step with his hands clapped over his ears. Christine was having a bath beside him. The reason for his strange pose was readily apparent—screeching coming from the kitchen. I offered him a chocolate coin and rumpled his hair for reassurance before I headed for the front lines.

"—pink! It's ruined!" Christine screamed. She was shaking a whitish-pinkish petticoat into Anci's face.

"—not my fault it has—" Anci screamed back.

"—of course it is! Who else would—"

"—red ribbon trim!"

"—BE SO STUPID!"

I slipped my spindly carcass between the lionesses. Foolish? Chivalrous?

"Ladies, ladies, ladies," I purred, taking one under each arm.

"Erik, look, it's ruined!" Christine wept.

"It's not my fault," Anci whined. She'd come a long way from the dim little thing who ran for cover whenever anyone raised their voice.

I kissed Christine's forehead. Dicey place to be, this.

"I'll get you a new one, Darling," I soothed. Darius raced up from the cellar, breathless and wide-eyed. We made silent eye contact as he led Anci away. We averaged a couple of these to-dos a week.

"It's brand new, Erik!" Christine continued. I could not grasp the magnitude of this situation for some reason. It was just a petticoat…

"I said I'll get you another, Christine, but you mustn't call our Anci stupid, Angel."

Oops. I winced even as the words escaped my mouth. Lack of sleep was making me careless.

"Ooooh, you pig! You would take your little girlfriend's side!" she spat.

"You're right, of course," I assured her, dragging her from the kitchen.

"AND HER BOTTOM'S AS WIDE AS A CARRIAGE HOUSE DOOR!" Thus my lovely bride-to-be delivered her parting shot. She finished me off with a particularly vicious _sotto voce_. "I know that's why you like her!"

"Christine, really," I sighed.

Masson was pulling at her skirt. "Mama, make a deal," he whined. Diverted by her sick baby, she bundled him into her arms, pressed her lips to his forehead to check for fever, and climbed the stairs; petticoat, rival and evil lover forgotten. Christine completed the procession.

I slumped into the parlor and snatched L'Epoque from Reza's hands.

"We must have a bigger house. NOW, or I take my brigade and leave. I take my life in my hands getting between those two; daroga, you have no idea!"

My Persian friend sighed. "I know you're right, but I love this old house…"

"You're a sentimental fool, and I can't afford that luxury. We can't keep two wildcats in the same cage."

"Well, find us a house then, Casanova. The way I see it, this is your entire fault," Reza reminded me charitably.


	53. Chapter 53

It fell to me to explain to my son that being deprived of Mama's breasts was a tremendous privilege of being a Big Boy. Needless to say, I struggled with this. Despite my reputation as a liar par excellence, I am not an especially good liar if I do not have any conviction in what I am saying. The conviction may be as simple as, I am lying because I believe what I want is more important than the truth...which in general is probably true. But in this case, I was troubled. Oh, I understood it had to be, but it would have been considerably easier if I could have given him something to look forward to. Here, Son, no more snuggly ba-bas—instead, have this nice porcelain cup with a kitty on it. Small consolation, that. 'Snuggly ba-bas', by the way, is a term coined by my genius son, and a better description I have never heard.

So I was lying awake fretting over it. There was NOTHING ELSE to do; Christine was closed to the public in every respect.

"Christine, do you suppose I could take the edge off it by telling him that he'll have another set of his own someday?"

One eye popped open; the eyebrow wrinkled. "What?" she snapped.

"Ba-bas. If I could tell him that he'll be able to play with them again someday—"

"Erik."

"Right. It's just that I sympathize. I miss my ba-bas, too."

"Forget it."

"Right. Good night, Angel."

Masson took to sucking his thumb. He turned shy and depressed, and clung to my leg. It was heartbreaking; I remembered when I lost Christine. There was nothing for it; no matter what she said or did, he felt abandoned.

"Masson, remember when your ear hurt the other day? The doctor says that when you pull on the ba-bas, or your thumb, it can make your ears hurt again," I handed him a chocolate coin. "And remember, someday you'll be a man, and you'll want to have a brandy like a proper gentleman. You'll have to be very accomplished drinking from your cup before you can hoist a brandy snifter like Papa and Uncle Reza."

He seemed to be impressed by the idea of his own brandy snifter. If only brandy came from snuggly ba-bas, it would be a perfect world.

"Masson, do you want to know a secret?"

He nodded absently, prying the chocolate open forlornly. Chocolate does not compare with snuggly ba-bas.

"Mama feels sad about this, too, but she is trying to be brave for you. It is hard for mamas when their babies grow up. She loves her Big Boy more than anything, you know."

He sucked on the chocolate for some time, mulling things over. "Papa, Mademoiselle Anci has a big tummy." He fished into my pocket for another coin.

Ah. We'd moved on. Why did Christine never get these questions? "Yes, she has a baby in her tummy."

"Why?"

"Because she and Darius want to have a baby to love, just as Mama and I have you."

"Why won't it come out and play?"

"It will, when it's ready. It's not big enough to come out yet."

"When?" He pulled Christine onto his lap. The cat buzzed and blinked dreamily.

"Mm, I'm not sure. Probably around Christmas."

"Then I can play with it?"

"Of course, when it's bigger. Brand new babies aren't very much fun; they just sleep and cry a lot."

"When will it be fun?"

"We'll just have to wait and see. Maybe Mama can tell us when babies get to be fun to play with."

"Papa, when do we marry again?" Masson had it that we were all three of us getting married.

"Saturday, four more days," I smiled.

"YAY! WE MARRY SATURDAY, WE MARRY SATURDAY!" He raced off, Christine hanging boneless over his shoulder.

"Erik, I can't go; I'm too sick." She sobbed. "I can't go to my own wedding!"

"Christine, it's early yet; I'm sure you're going to feel better. Don't upset yourself. You always shape up before tea, Darling." I stroked her back gently.

"I don't think so…I just know I'm going to be sick for days."

"YEEEOOW! Christine!" For someone so prostrate, she had a wicked kick.

"And it's your fault, you wretched beast!" she wailed helplessly.

"Of course it is, Darling. I remember forcing myself on you repeatedly." That earned me another vicious attack.

"MAMA! PAPA! GET UP!"

It was a perfect wedding. Christine felt much better, as I'd predicted, and she looked indescribably beautiful. Masson capered about, a picture of cherubic glee, as the Church made me and Christine husband and wife. It seemed almost anticlimactic, not to say comic, after all that had gone before to get us to the altar.

I sat at our Persian soiree feeling dazed, and guilty for not feeling as ecstatically happy as Christine obviously was. I had much more fun at Darius and Anci's party, actually.

I spent most of the day peeling Masson off the dancing girls. He and I had conferred on acceptable behavior with sparkly ladies beforehand, and I thought he'd understood; actually I'm positive he understood. Still, I was forced to administer a good walloping when I overheard him trying to persuade a sympathetic dancer to fish the ba-bas out of her costume so he could have a proper snuggle. As usual, the entire party had to pause and watch the evil man beat the angel child. Masson curled up on the bride's lap and called down perdition on me as I made my way back to the dear girl to grovel and apologize for my son's unchivalrous behavior.

My Persian is not sufficiently rusty to explain why the woman refused to believe that Masson meant every bit of what he'd said and done. I was beginning to feel he should be locked up for a sexual criminal and have done with it.

All in all, it was a depressing day, and I had no idea why. Worst of all, why wasn't I over-the-moon ecstatic? Christine was finally, irrevocably mine—before God and everyone else. Only a fool would feel numb on his wedding day, but me, of all people. I began to suspect I was losing my mind.

Christine wore a lovely new gown when she came to bed. I could tell she was proud that her figure betrayed no sign of her pregnancy yet, and she was pleased when I made a point of noticing. We shared a champagne toast, and she kissed me, guiding my hands over her body. She pressed close, warm and inviting, her signals unmistakable.

Ironic; as hard done by as I'd felt the last few weeks, and now with my bride willing—no, eager—well…let's just say my heart wasn't in it.

"Erik, you don't want to?" she accused. At least that's how I heard it.

"Of course I do!" I growled, mortified.

Encouraged again, she teased my lips with her tongue and reached for me.

I stopped her. "Christine, it's late. You need your rest."

"It's not that late," she insisted, unlacing her gown. "Touch," she urged.

I tried, but I just felt hollow inside. How could I tell her? It wasn't her, it was me, but she'd never believe that—not on her best day would she believe that, but in her current condition it would be disastrous. I wanted to run, and I wished I was dead for being such a marginal man.

Christine was oblivious to my distress. My pathetic, half-hearted caresses were driving her wild. "I want to feel my husband," she whispered. The love in her eyes was everything I'd dreamed of, and still I felt utterly numb. She wriggled beneath me, confused.

"Erik?"

"Perhaps in the morning, Darling," I suggested, putting her off.

"You know I'll be ill in the morning!" Her disappointment shamed me.

"Well, I'm tired! I'm not a young man anymore, Christine!" I was on my feet and getting dressed; she was completely bewildered.

"Erik, please don't run away tonight," she pleaded, lacing up her gown. "I won't bother you anymore." She turned her back to me and drew the covers up.

I threw myself down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, wishing I could understand what was happening to me. I listened to Christine crying as silently as possible, wanted to reach out to comfort her, but couldn't. Finally, I heard her breath come regularly with sleep, and I felt safe to cry myself. But I couldn't even do that.


	54. Chapter 54

"Reza! Pssst! Get in here!"

"Erik! What's wrong?"

As soon as the daroga was close enough, I snatched him into the parlor and locked the door.

"What the devil are you doing up so early this morning?" he asked, astounded.

"I need help." I wrung my hands. "I need help, and if you laugh at me I swear I'll choke the life from you right where you stand!" I crumpled onto the sofa, wailing like Masson.

"Of course I won't laugh at you!" He patted my shoulder helplessly and bundled me into his arms. "Great day, what's happened to you?"

I clung to him and poured my horror out. "I don't know what's wrong with me; I think I've finally gone mad. The only woman I've ever wanted married me yesterday, and I feel dead inside. Why can't I be happy?"

As usual, the daroga was not one to get upset. "You're not going mad, Old Friend. After all, how would anyone feel if he realized a life's dream?"

"Thrilled! Ecstatic!" I insisted.

"Yes, but you're not anyone, remember?"

"It's not funny!"

"I'm not laughing," he said softly. "One could also feel empty, purposeless, lost. Of course it's not an end now that you've got Christine for your wife, but it's a hard habit to break, after living for it all these years. You're being too hard on yourself."

He sat with me patiently.

"Daroga, you're not much for women…" I ventured.

"Women are fine, Erik," he chuckled. "You're such a Frenchman."

"Did you ever…" I fidgeted. "If something was really important to someone—someone you loved more than anything—"

"Erik, I think we both know who you're talking about."

"Right," I nodded. "Christine was feeling quite well last night. I mean, really, _really_ well. It's been a long time, you know; you'd've thought…I don't know what's wrong. I just didn't want to. It's nothing to do with her, but she'd never understand that."

"Probably not," he agreed.

"I tried to make myself want to. I kept thinking about how important it was to her, and I'd never want to hurt her like that!"

"Of course you don't. Erik, there's really nothing wrong with not feeling in the mood, it's not a crime."

"On my wedding night? The devil it's not! Christ, Reza!"

"Let me finish," he scolded gently. "I was about to say that under the circumstances, I understand you'd feel that that it was a crime."

Suddenly it critical that I make an important distinction. "I didn't say I couldn't, Reza! I just said I didn't feel like it. I could if I wanted!"

"I understand, Erik," he assured me.

"Really?" I demanded skeptically.

"Absolutely. And it only confirms your devotion to Christine that you would open such a delicate topic for conversation."

That finished it. I dissolved in tears again. "How could she marry such a wretched creature, Reza? She's going to regret it every day!"

"You're an extraordinarily sensitive man, Erik. We men can't really pretend we're interested when we're not. Women have us at a distinct disadvantage there. Once again, you're being too hard on yourself—if you had the luxury of time, I'd say it would all sort itself out, but I understand that you don't feel you have that luxury."

I was so mortified at having this conversation; I thought I might keel over on the spot.

"We should be able to sort this out to everyone's…ah, satisfaction," Reza soothed. "Let me have a quick cup of coffee, and then I'll see what I can do."

I took tea and soda crackers to Christine and bid her a guilty good morning with a kiss.

"You look like you don't feel so badly this morning," I noted, stretching out beside her.

"No, I don't," she smiled hopefully. She tried to cuddle as I prayed for Masson to awaken.

"I'm glad of that, Angel."

"Are you worried about the baby?" she asked. My heart broke, realizing this incredible woman was making excuses for me, trying to understand. I wanted to tell her the truth; she said I should tell her the truth, but surely she didn't mean I should do so when all it would do is hurt her?

I nodded. "I suppose I am." Maybe that's what it was; I didn't know.

"Oh, Angel," she smiled, "you're not going to hurt the baby, or me. Pregnant couples do it all the time."

"I'm sorry about last night, Christine. I love you, I do!"

"I know you do, Erik," she stroked the face no one but Christine could love. "Do you want to slip back in bed now? Masson may sleep a bit later today," she whispered, catching my earlobe between her lips.

"Christine, don't," I tried to squirm away, but it wasn't easily done as she chased me around the bed.

"MAMA! PAPA!"

Ooohhhhh, thank you God; my first full day as a genuine Catholic and I was already praying like a nun. I flew up to fetch the boy, avoiding Christine's wounded eyes again.

Masson and I reconciled after breakfast and went off to feed his ducks. We'd not been there long when Reza appeared. I discovered I didn't want to look at him anymore.

"UNCLE REZA!" Masson leapt into his arms. I watched my dear friend kiss my baby. I was so glad Masson had so many people who loved him. Reza set him down and he ran off chasing his ducks with Christine.

"I thought I'd find you here. Here." He slapped a small vial into my hand. "For God's sake, be careful with this, will you? I'm only doing this because I don't want you to go mad thinking you're mad. Six drops in a glass of wine about an hour before bedtime should, ah…"

"Ah."

"Erik, it'll make you sick, kill you if you overdo it. Promise me, just this once to get you, ah, over the hump, so to speak? Promise!"

I nodded. "I promise."

"Now, look." Reza looked around to see that Masson wasn't hovering too close. "You understand what happens when we get older, don't you? There's nothing the matter with you if you don't pop instantly to attention when you see a pretty girl. You need a little rub as you get older, that's all."

I nodded and turned bright pink.

"Here, I'll take him back to the zoo. Go home and have a nice game of show and tell. If nothing, ah, develops, break it off and have a glass of wine." He smiled and slapped my shoulder in a brotherly way. "You'll be alright—both of you."

"But Reza, I still don't…feel like it," I admitted, ashamed.

"But you want to feel like it, don't you?"

I nodded. "I must feel like it."

"Well, make a start and see if you don't feel like it as things progress," Reza smiled knowingly.

I caught up to Christine in the library again. Just knowing I had the little vial of magic in my pocket made gave me courage to approach her. As I knelt beside her, watching her doze, I felt my heart overflow with love. I brushed my lips against her cheek and she started awake.

"Hello," she purred happily. "Where is Masson?"

"Reza met us at the park. They went to the zoo, and I brought Christine home."

"Mmm. We're all alone?"

I clutched her hand tightly as she led me upstairs. Once inside the bedroom, she pressed me against the door and removed my mask and wig. She captured my death's head in her hands and teased my lips with her own. Her tongue darted between my teeth, flicked my tongue awake as she removed my shirt and scraped her nails across my chest. I shuddered and hissed.

"I don't know what's come over me all of a sudden, Erik," she whispered. "I can feel myself getting wet," she confessed. She bit my lip and rubbed her hand across the front of my trousers roughly.

I reached for her, but she slipped from my grasp. She paused halfway to the bed and removed her drawers. She moved onto the bed and waited for me, on her hands and knees. Apparently I did not respond quickly enough for her. She tore her skirt up impatiently, exposing her backside.

"Jesus, Christine."

She turned around and stretched out with a sigh. "Tch, Erik. I suppose I'll have to take care of this by myself." She slipped a hand between her legs and closed her eyes.

It was no longer a question of whether I felt like it or not. Watching her pleasure herself—ignoring me—was infuriating. I was fit to burst as I fell onto her with a roar.

"Oh, Christ, you are wet," I groaned, slipping inside her.

"I need my husband," she panted, wrapping her legs around me.

"You're my wife, Christine!" The realization had the most startling effect on me. "I'm fucking my wife."

"You're fucking your wife," she echoed as we began to rock together.

It seemed I might enjoy married life after all.


	55. Chapter 55

"Explain to me again what happened?" Reza asked.

"He threw the peg box at me. Mama and I were too close for his liking."

"Good God."

Darius was stitching up my shoulder where Masson had bounced the peg box off me; Christine was whipping the patricidal toddler, and his howling had alarmed the rest of the household.

"I'm glad things are going well otherwise," Reza commented obliquely.

"Oh yes," I winced.

"Sorry, Mr Erik," Darius apologized.

"It's fine, Darius. Yes, that's sorted itself out beyond all expectation. One day she was ill, the next she'd gone insatiable on me," I wondered.

"Anci got like that as well," Darius grumbled. "It didn't last."

"What a blessing it is to be a bachelor," Reza smiled.

"Erik?" Christine bustled in, fretting.

"Don't look, Mrs Erik, you'll get queasy;" Darius warned. Too late.

"Oh, dear…" she wobbled. As usual, I caught her just in time.

"Well, gentlemen, would you have a look at what just landed in my lap," I chuckled.

Reza and Darius beat a hasty retreat, leaving me free to plunder Christine's ba-bas.

"Behave yourself," Christine giggled. "We're in the kitchen!"

"Where is the little fiend?"

"He's in the corner chair with a glowing bottom. I don't know what to do with him, Erik," she worried. "His temper…"

I surrendered to her maternal preoccupation and buttoned up her dress. "Right, well, after corner time we're going to have to discuss this, because it's all good and fine to try and brain me, but—"

"Yes, the baby; I know."

"Do you know why you had to sit in the corner chair, Son?"

"Mm. I threw my toy."

"And why is that bad?"

"Because you got hurt."

"Masson, I know that you don't want to share Mama with anyone, but you must. It's alright for Mama and Papa to be close, and it doesn't mean Mama doesn't love you if she cuddles me. Mama can love us both."

His lip stuck out.

"Don't make that face, Masson," Christine urged. "We don't hurt people when something upsets us. We find another way to feel better, such as by talking with Mama and Papa."

When Christine came downstairs for breakfast, she asked me where Masson was. I hadn't seen him yet that morning.

"He wasn't upstairs with you?"

Christine blanched. "Don't say that! Erik!"

I tore all over the house and garden calling for him. Soon, Reza, Darius, and Anci were searching as well. Christine was searching for, well, Christine.

He was gone, with my cape and his cat. When we finally realized he'd gone, Christine fainted. I put her to bed and went to the park while Reza contacted the authorities.

He was not in the park. I combed the zoo, but there are so many places for an angry little boy to hide. He's just like you, I kept thinking; how will you civilize him?

The ladies at the candy store had not seen him. I did not find him in the theater; but again, he could be anywhere in the opera house. It began to drizzle; I started to worry about exposure. I ran home to check on Christine.

"Hysterical," Reza advised. "I slipped a little something into her drink so she would sleep."

I nodded. "I have to get back out there; it's raining. I can't believe this, Reza; I can't believe it!"

I walked the streets for hours. I was soaked through and shivering, but my baby was smaller and colder.

I prayed; yes, I did, I promised anything. Anything. Just give me a sign, whatever you want me to do. Just give him back to us safe.

I ran back home again in case he'd turned up. Nothing. The authorities were useless; somehow I'd known that all along. Reza had to force me out bodily after I screamed at the hapless police that they'd take it more seriously if it were the Comte de Chagny's son missing.

I fell to accosting perfect strangers--I didn't care how badly I terrified them--and asking them if they'd seen a chubby boy carrying a boneless cat and dragging a cape behind him.

It was going to be dark soon. I went under the opera house to find dry clothes. I tucked a warm blanket under my coat for when I found the baby as well. I ran back upstairs. As I turned to move across the stage, I glimpsed those pretty golden ladies Masson loved so much.

"Brrrrow." Something brushed my leg and startled me.

"Christine? CHRISTINE! Where's Masson? Where's the boy, you stupid cat?"

Christine skittered offstage and upstairs. I gave chase and lost the bastard anyway.

"Christine…Christine? Christine, it's high time you came home for your liver, Darling. Where's the boy?"

"Brrrrow." Christine scampered up the main aisle. I dashed after him.

"Christine…Christine, wait. Oh, for God's sake, wait!"

He ducked across the aisle and ran back to me. When I came level with the aisle he'd run down, I saw my cape all crumpled up. I raced toward it, unable to tell whether the boy was inside or not from where I stood.

He was there…I fell to my knees and wept.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you…" I would keep my promise, I swore. Whatever it was, if I could get a sign, I'd do it.

I bundled Masson up into my arms, and he was warm and dry, thankfully. He must've come straight to the theater and played all day. I pressed tear-soaked lips all over his precious face.

"Papa," he sighed, throwing his arms around my neck.

"Let's get you home, Big Boy. Mama's been beside herself all day," I sniffed.


	56. Chapter 56

Christine hauled Masson out of my arms, weeping and kissing and swatting his bottom simultaneously.

"Oh my baby, oh thank god…what the devil do you mean, Masson Gustave? Don't you realize how worried everyone was? Don't you realize anything could have happened to you?...Oh, thank you, thank you Holy Mother…What if Papa hadn't found you? What would have become of you? If you ever, ever, ever run away again…you'll wish you weren't found! Do you understand me? I'll give you such a hiding, I'll—"

"Right, Darling, let's see what we can do to get this little man something to eat."

While we gave him warm cereal, I gave Masson the word.

"Right, Son: no sweets, no ducks or park, and no zoo for the week. No throwing, stomping, yelling, biting, disrespecting, or disobeying, or we'll begin to take toys away. Most of all, I want you to think how you would feel if you woke up tomorrow and could not find Christine anywhere. You looked all day, and you could not find him. How would you feel, Masson, if Christine was gone?"

"I would feel sad!" he cried.

"And what else?"

"Scared!"

"Mm. Can you imagine how Mama felt?"

He nodded, snuffling. "I'm sorry, Mama!" Christine embraced him, overcome again.

"Now I want you to apologize to Uncle Reza, Darius and Mademoiselle Anci as well. We shall go visit the police so that you may apologize for all the trouble you caused them today."

He nodded, sucking on his fingers.

"Masson," Christine murmured. "You must apologize to Papa. Papa ran all over Paris looking for you today; he was just as upset as Mama."

"I'm sorry, Papa." Oh, my sweet boy, I wondered as I held him, what have I bequeathed you with my blood?

Masson didn't seem chilled at all, but I at least wanted a hot bath. By the time he was tucked in, he was already gone; as a matter of fact, the entire household succumbed to nervous exhaustion and its relief by nine.

"There's a group of mothers with young children and they meet in the playground area of the park every day, late morning. I'm going to take him once his week is up. He must learn to get along with other children," Christine was saying.

"Good idea," I nodded, with saintly patience if I say so myself. I was in my new coffin, rattling like the bag of bones I was, having caught a diabolical chill. I was trying like the devil to get Christine away from me. I didn't want her getting sick in her condition…and I didn't want her looking at me. When I am ill, I really, really must be left alone.

"Erik, won't you please take this broth?" she insisted.

"Go, and I'll take it. It's disgusting enough watching me eat under normal circumstances, but a noseless skeleton with a headcold? No. Leave me some dignity; I'll be alright."

"Erik—"

"I promise I'll take the broth, Darling. Run along now." I slurped the soup and drifted back off to sleep.

For most of his week of penance, Masson wandered rather shiftlessly around in my cape. Christine had a cape made of a linen towel, and the two of them moped about as if there were no toys or diversions to be had anywhere, without the pegboard, the park or the zoo. If it was intended to make us pity him and relent, I am happy to say it had no such effect.

One afternoon after about four days of fever and shaking, slobbering and snorting and generally feeling unworthy of membership in the human tribe, I heard…well, it sounded like a violin.

No, I wasn't dreaming, because I was in danger of drowning in my own juices if I didn't get up and cough them out. After I'd cleared my throat, I peered over the edge of the coffin. It was a violin—mine. In his boredom, Masson had wandered in and plundered my armoire. He was wearing my shoes and my waistcoat, and was sitting, sawing away at the violin he'd also found there. I watched him experiment with his fat fingers on the fingerboard, observing how different sounds came from different things he did.

There, before my spellbound, disbelieving eyes and ears, I heard him picking out a melody as best he could, given the limitations of his little hands.

Finally, he awoke from his reverie and spied me staring at him.

"Papa, I found this!" He beamed. Christine was sitting alongside, having a bath as usual.

"Yes, it's a violin, Masson. You may use it if you like."

He nodded. "I like it!" He clumped off in my shoes and waistcoat. "MAMA! LOOK!"

It turned out that Masson wanted to do little else once he'd discovered the violin. He had worked out that he could sit it flat on his lap and work the bow in a most bizarre fashion. He and Christine sat, played and sang for hours. Actually, Christine usually just sat, dozed, and flicked his tail in between wash-ups.

"He's like a new person," I was marveling to Reza.

"He is an amazing child, Erik; he has so much of you in him. I hope—"

"I know, Reza."

"Papa." Masson appeared in his official music-playing waistcoat and shoes.

"Yes?"

"Could you play the pinano? I need to know something," he said, very solemnly.

"Certainly. If you'll excuse us, Reza."

Masson took my hand and led me to the piano in silence; clearly he was working something out in his mind. I sat at the piano, and he got settled with the violin.

"Play this." He gave me the E just above middle C.

"I can't see," he grumbled. He laid the violin aside and shoved my big chair over to the piano as easily as you please. It never occurred him to ask me for help with that chair. In addition to everything else, he is as strong as an ox. I prayed his disposition stayed good; in another three months he'd be able to whip my bottom, no trouble.

He settled back in the chair, and Christine on the arm.

"Right, can you see now?"

"Mm." I gave him the E again.

I continued playing notes while Masson worked out the geography of the keyboard in relation to the violin.

"Right, Papa." Oh, god, he sounded just like me. I had all to do to keep a straight face. "Can you play 'Sur le Pont d'Avignon'?"

"Yes," I replied, somewhat befuddled, I admit. "Can you?"

"Mm. I think so," he nodded. "You say 'Go', Papa."

"Go?" I was still back on him saying 'I think so'. "Oh! Oh, right. Well, normally, in music, one would count the tempo, thus: One and two and three and four and…Do you see?"

"Mm. You do it," he repeated. Highly focused, he was.

We played it. A bit slower than it should have been, but I'm not one to quibble with a two-year old playing violin by ear.

I sat there dumbfounded. Finally, all I could come up with was, "Jesus H Christ!" I bolted to the top of the stairs. "CHRISTINE! REZA! COMMERE!"

Christine went white and clutched Reza's arm when she saw me; my bones were rattling inside my skin and I was laughing like I'd gone irrevocably round the bend and halfway up crackpot street.

"I think I've finally flipped, Darling. Come see if you'll have to put me away, please."

When we entered the room, Masson was picking something out thoughtfully.

"Son? Can we show Mama and Uncle Reza?"

"Mm."

We played it again. Christine and Reza applauded in wonder. Masson beamed.

"So, am I headed for the cracker factory or not?" I demanded. I was beginning to feel that I was not headed for the cracker factory after all.

"Masson, you worked it out all by yourself?" Christine asked. She looked…frightened, actually.

"Mm. It's easy if you just find out where one is," he replied.

"One what?"

He plucked a note.

Christine looked at me. Her eyes said 'What do we do now?'

How the hell would I know?

"Why, that was absolutely marvelous, Masson!" Uncle Reza laughed. "I think this calls for a celebration. What would you say to a trip to the opera?"

"YAY!"

"I think you'll enjoy the theater, Masson, it's all colors and music…" They made their way downstairs hand in hand; Christine and I continued staring at each other.


	57. Chapter 57

Reza was correct; our son was a theater fiend, smitten from the start. Christine and Reza made a strange couple at the opera with Masson, but there was certainly no trouble about them occupying Box 5. The only ones who were brave enough to question Christine about her situation were the ones who didn't need to.

"Papa, you won't come to the opera, like you won't come to Mass?"

"Not exactly like that, but yes. I don't feel comfortable with so many people around me."

"Are you afraid they will say mean things?"

"Mm, perhaps."

"I wish you could come."

"Perhaps sometime I will; we'll see."

"Papa, will you take me back to the theater in the daytime and show me how all the theater magic works? Mama says you know all about theater magic. Please?"

I admit I knew the day would come. Did I expect it so soon? Never. I confess I was moved, proud, bewildered. The boy was so far above me…and yet, he was still just a little boy.

"Alright, Masson. After Christmas, I will be honored to take you to the opera house, and show all that I know."

I did not forget that I needed to return and kill Bishop Richard. I planned several times to go and see to it, honestly. It's just that since Masson came along, all of my priorities have gone topsy-turvy. I can't leave bath time, duck-feeding time, story time, music time…strangely, these perfect, ordinary moments are so much more important to me than doing murder. I still intended to see to it; I just didn't know when.

Anci popped her baby out in about ten hours the week before Christmas. This irritated the hell out of Christine. She whacked me when I pointed out that she likely would have been irritated no matter what Anci's outcome had been.

It was a baby boy they named Fahim—not a very big child, but Christine reminded me not to judge by our bear baby. Reza told me there was quite a commotion when Anci, still not the shiniest apple on the tree, made a play for 'Fahim Erik'. That, however, received all the consideration it merited, and it was 'Fahim Naser' after all.

"When can he play?" Masson popped up and down anxiously.

"Masson, he's so tiny," Christine advised. "He can't even sit up or walk now. Would you like to see him?"

He nodded briskly.

"We must whisper so we don't wake him up. Ssshhh."

He nodded again, solemnly. "Ssshhh."

Masson looked deeply disappointed when he came from meeting Fahim. He climbed up into my lap forlornly.

"He's no fun ever, Papa." He slumped against my chest dejectedly.

"I told you new babies aren't much fun, remember?" I smoothed his hair. It was darkening slightly as he grew up.

"New babies are yucky," he spat. "Bleah."

"Bleah." I echoed. Masson's eyes began to twinkle.

"Bleah!" He stuck his tongue out much further this time.

"Bleah!" I did the same.

"Bleah-ah-ah!" He embellished with a fabulous hairball-coughing-up sound and giggled so badly he nearly fell off my lap.

"Bleah-ah-ah!" I coughed up a hairball too; just in time for Mama to come in and see.

"Erik! What are you teaching him? Can't he find enough trouble without you leading him right to it?"

"Ooops, sorry, Mama."

Christmas was the most glorious holiday season of my life. I don't have much to compare it to; that's true. But when the most beautiful girl in the world rests her head on your shoulder and sighs, "Our first Christmas married, Erik." Think of it! _Me!_

We were indescribably happy. I knew I had no right to the joy I was living every day, but I was honestly grateful. I tried to talk to God; I felt like a jackass doing so. I told Him how grateful I was for Christine's love, and that Masson was healthy and beautiful. I pleaded for the baby in Christine's belly to be healthy and beautiful, too. Not for me, Sir; I know I don't deserve it, but for Christine, and the child itself.

I reminded Him, too, that I was still waiting to learn what He wanted from me for the safe return of my son.

Christine's belly was blossoming, and it was such a miracle to see what she could do with her body. I mourned every day that I missed placing my hand on her belly to feel Masson dancing inside her. I pleaded her forgiveness tearfully on many occasions.

"No, Erik," she said, "it's in the past. Forgive yourself; I couldn't have found a better father for my babies anywhere."

Masson broke off playing and set down his bow thoughtfully.

"Papa, I am disappointed in you and Mama."

Good heavens. "Yes, Son?"

"Does Mama have a baby in her tummy?"

"Yes; yes, she does. But why should this disappoint you? You don't want to be a big brother?"

Masson sighed with great drama.

"No," he replied, as if it should be self-evident. "Fahim is no fun. Why would you and Mama want a no fun baby like that when you already have me?"

"Masson, your Mama is an only child, and she feels quite strongly—and I agree--that you should not be an only child. It can be quite lonely, and Mama and I have wished to spare you that." I rather felt I was speaking with a thirty year old man. It was hard to know which pieces of Masson were childlike and which were not. I suppose one could say the same about me; certainly Reza would.

"Well. I still think you two should have asked me and Christine if we wanted any more babies. I hope it won't expect to share my things," he sniffed imperiously. Well, imperiously as one can sniff with the second cutest nose in Christendom.

We'll have to work on the thing-sharing.

I told Christine that Masson was most disappointed in us about the baby. She had a good laugh at the idea that the two of us could actually be so organized as to _plan_ a child. I took a bit of offense at that.

"Come along, you silly old man; don't take yourself so seriously," she laughed, holding her sides. "What have you and I ever planned?"

"I beg your pardon! I planned to marry you!"

"Oh, I see," she nodded. "And it all happened just according to the Phantom's grand plan." She rumpled my hair; I hate that. She laughed and nibbled on my ear; I love that, so I forgave her the rumpling.

"The Phantom has a rather grand plan just now, as it happens…"

"Oh?"

"Mm. Concerning a fabulous couple, a blindfold, a bit of ice, and a few ostrich feathers."


	58. Chapter 58

It was an unusual evening, in that I was sipping cognac with Reza and Gaston, rather than seeing to Masson's bath. The door to the parlor flew open and Christine marched in, her face the most remarkable shade of reddish-purple. She stood with fists clenched in the middle of the room. My companions were dumb-founded; I was worried for her health. I moved to her side solicitously.

"Erik, will you please go upstairs and see to your son immediately? Thank you." She clipped.

"Darling, what is it?" I whispered. "What's happened? Are you ill?"

"No. He…will you please come into the hallway?" It was then that I realized that the astonishing color she was wearing was a blush.

Once we were alone in the hall, Christine became even more flustered.

"What is it, Christine?"

"I was drying him off, you know, just rubbing him with the towel as I always do!" she fretted.

"Of course," I soothed.

"And he said…oh, God…" she gasped. "He said, 'Mama, it feels good when you rub my peepee!' I want you to see to him, right now!" She buried her face in her hands.

Without even trying, I could think of half a dozen things to say which would most certainly get me a month in the corner chair.

However, what I did say was, "Darling, he's two years old. You're thinking of this in a totally different way to what he's thinking. He doesn't mean anything naughty."

Christine was still a lovely plum color, and she was becoming angry as well. "I want you to go upstairs and tell your son that he does not say disgusting things to his mother!"

"Christine, he is not a bad boy. He meant no harm, he doesn't know anything about such things. I'm not going to make him feel bad about it."

She slapped me then. "You pig!"

"How do you propose I bring this up? Angel, look, if we don't mention it, it will be forgotten. He's probably forgotten about it even now. If I go up there and bring it up again, I'll only call his attention to something we want him to forget."

Just then my naked boy appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Mama? I'm cold."

I saw to it. Masson was silent, thinking and we dried and dressed for bed.

"What is wrong with Mama?" he frowned.

"Here, you want to brush your hair?" I held him up to the mirror. "Sometimes ladies get a bit strange when they're having a baby. I think Mama is just having a strange day. She still loves us, but she's busy thinking about other things to get ready for the new baby."

"Is it coming soon?"

"Mm, not too soon. Closer to Eastertime."

Christine was having none of my rational argument about the bath time incident. I was lounging in my coffin and she was pacing. Well, pacing in a rolling sort of way.

"…tell him it's sinful, and that he mustn't…you know."

Truth be told, I was rather enjoying her inability to discuss what we were discussing. Her orders to me about what I was to tell our son were punctuated by hand-wringing, blushing, and 'you knows' aplenty.

"Ah, Darling, I'm afraid I must disagree with you on that one."

"Erik!" she was horrified that I'd chuckled slightly. There is nothing funny about this sexual stuff to Christine. Maybe I am a madman, but when I'm objective it seems a terrific comedy to me.

"It's different for boys, Angel; at least I suspect it is." I realized I didn't know for sure, so I figured I'd best make an inquiry. Seemed reasonable.

"Christine, when did you first discover that touching yourself felt good?"

Have you ever seen a conniption? I never had—thought I had, but I hadn't until then—and I must say it's astounding. She went through all the colors in the rainbow, stopped at that plum color; her eyes nearly popped clean out of her head, and her hands began to flutter as if she was a fat baby bird trying to take off. When she finally spoke, she reminded me of a performance of Macbeth I'd seen years ago; the three witches were bone-tingling scary. Their voices were like creaking hinges.

"I am not discussing these…unseemly matters with you! We are discussing our son growing up a pervert! You'll put a stop to it, do you hear?"

"Christine, remember the time you were talking about reproductive rights for women at the dinner table? You said we were all adults?"

"So?"

"So, it's just the two of us here; if you can't talk to me—"

"It's different! Stop changing the subject, Erik!" she insisted.

Oh. Right. "Right, well, I was saying, he's going to be touching himself as he works on this potty business. Boys don't get too far along in life before they figure it out that some things feel good."

"You have to tell him—"

"You don't want me to lie to him outright, do you, Christine? If anyone should be blind, insane, and have hairy palms it's me!"

"I'm not listening to this!" Christine clapped her hands over her ears. "I don't want to hear this!"

"I'm just saying he's going to do it eventually, and I'm not going to put the fear of God in him over it."

"Yes you will!" she stamped.

"Darling, if you feel so strongly about it, you tell him; but not yet. He's only just two. That was just an innocent remark he made, and you've taken it all out of proportion."

"If you call me a hysterical woman, I'll kill you!"

"Convenient, I'm already in my box. Care to join me?"

"Absolutely not! You're a sick man!" she huffed.

"Christine, where did you learn about this stuff? Did your father—"

"Certainly not!" she exploded, outraged. In a moment, she settled. "Madame Giry told me…some things…and one hears talk," she admitted, fidgeting.

"So no one you loved and trusted told you anything about how marvelous it could be. You had these feelings—"

"I did not!" she cried.

"Alright; I had these feelings, and I didn't know what to do about them, and all I knew was that people hid and whispered, and it had to be bad and shameful. So if I had these feelings, I had to be bad and shameful, too; it's only natural to make that assumption."

I left my coffin and knelt in front of Christine; kissed her tummy.

"Angel, I can't believe there's anything bad and shameful between us. I won't believe it," I insisted gently. "Shame is a vile cancer; I can't do that to him. We'll find a way to teach him that satisfies us both, Darling, I promise."

Christine sighed, skeptically. She was not ready to concede yet. "I'm going to bed".

I know I'm a bad man, but I couldn't resist.

"Christine?"

"What?" she grumbled, half out the door.

"It feels good when you rub my peepee."

"AAAAAGGGGHHH!"

I was telling Reza that pregnant women seem to have no sense of humor.

"Do you recall, was she this weird with Masson?"

"They do get a bit anxious as it nears the end, I've heard it said."

I told him about the night I'd awakened and Christine was not beside me. Immediately I looked for Masson; he was fine, asleep. I was about to fly from the room when I spied her, sitting on the bedroom floor in the dark, sorting out little piles of baby linens just as calmly as you please, at two in the morning. I asked her gently if anything was wrong.

"I just realized I don't have enough socks," she said "I'm going to have to knit a few more warm socks, and another bonnet or two. It's still chilly in April, you know."

Right. I assured her there was time aplenty to see to that in the morning, and she came easily back to bed with me.

"Extraordinary," he remarked.

"Mm. And now she's convinced Masson is going to be a pervert; he's two years old, for god's sake, and she wants me to caution him against self abuse."

"What!" Reza was floored.

"I told her, I'm not telling him anything now, and when I do, you can be sure I'll leave out the bit about going blind and insane and all that rot."

"Oh my god, Erik, I just realized—it explains you perfectly."

"Shut up. It's amazing, really. This is the same girl that nearly killed me over the soup, bringing up reproductive rights for women—remember?"

"Oh, yes," he chuckled, "'We're all adults here, we all know where babies come from.'".

"Yes, that same girl; it's remarkable. She has no objections to doing it; she just doesn't want to talk about it. What an intoxicating little hypocrite," I marveled.

"What brought this on with the boy, exactly?"

I told Reza about the bathroom drying incident. We had a good laugh over it. It felt better to know that I was not the only one who found the whole thing amusing. Sometimes I don't know how much my reactions have in common with those of normal people; Reza helps me with that.

"Erik, I think I'll publish a scientific paper about you. I wonder if Gaston can help me contact that Doctor Freud."

"Daroga, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Just that I've seen the most remarkable change in your demeanor since you've…found a regular outlet for your energies. You're a lamb so long as you're not deprived of Christine's charms," he mused.

"Leave it, will you?" I grumbled. "If you want to do something worthwhile, find _your_ energies an outlet. Now that I've turned half sane, you're the only madman we have left."

"Thank you, no; I prefer women in small, medicinal doses. Besides, I could never love anyone but you, Erik."

"Well, this is a tragic story for the ages. All the time you had your chance, and you never declared yourself. Alas, I belong to another now. Perhaps I'll write an opera about it."

We amuse ourselves no end, Reza and I. Poor Darius dropped our tea and scuttled out. After all this time, he still has no idea what to make of us.

"Erik, this is a marvelous idea!" Reza grinned.

"Right, but it's my opera, so I'm going to be the pretty one."


	59. Chapter 59

Christine was ecstatic when she returned from shopping; she had to tell me all about it. She was buying baby linens—of which she already had a metric ton, but never mind—and she met another girl due with her first child just about the same time as Christine is due. In the world of feminine logic, this made them instant best friends. They took a tea break and compared things like how sick they were and when they had to stop wearing their regular dresses.

Manon—Christine's new best friend—was so grateful to have an experienced mother for a friend. She had no one to ask some things, Christine said, and they were both thrilled to have someone to share things with. They were going to meet again for luncheon; Christine was going to bring Masson, to show him off. And then the ladies discussed how they couldn't wait for their husbands to meet, and what do you know, Erik, she said sweetly, but it turns out that you and he already know each other.

It seems that Manon is the latest edition of the Comtesse de Chagny. Small frigging world. Well, at last Raoul and I had something in common besides Christine; neither of us intended to sit to supper and make nice-nice with each other, comparing pregnant husband stories.

Nevertheless, Christine persisted in putting the screws to me at dinner.

"Erik, it's time you and Raoul put things behind you and moved on! We're happy; he's happy with Manon. There's no reason we can't all be friends! Don't you agree, Reza?"

"Oh, no, my dear," the daroga chuckled. "Leave me out."

"Darling, there are a number of excellent reasons why we can't all be friends. First: he hates me. Second: I hate him. Third: I have eaten mushrooms more intelligent than the Comte de Chagny. Now, while I appreciate that you and Manon may be dear friends—Masson, no turnips for Christine, please finish what you have, thank you—I am happy with my gentlemen's club as it now stands. I have no wish to admit someone to whom I'd have to explain all the jokes."

"Papa, no more turnips, they're yucky." Reza reached to come to Masson's aid, so Christine and I could continue our argument, by removing the yucky vegetables onto his bread plate. It is canon law among young children that one yucky substance pollutes everything on the plate; it must be removed or the meal is halted.

"You're being completely unreasonable! I'm going to be ashamed to tell Manon that my husband is acting like a spoiled child!"

"You knew I was a spoiled child when you took up with me, Dear; didn't she Reza—"

"Oh, mm, I'm afraid you did, my dear; he's absolutely right about that."

"—and if you think that Raoul's agreeing happily as Manon offers this idea to him, you've got another one coming. I am positive he's having apoplexy at this very moment, turning that dashing shade of pink that used to make you swoon," I needled.

"Oooh, you pig," Christine seethed.

"Papa's a pig! Papa's a pig!"

"Masson Gustave, that is quite enough!" Christine announced.

Masson giggled. He was beginning to display an inherited tendency to revel in sending Christine up the flagpole. Even so, he remembered his etiquette.

"May I be excused please, Mama?"

"Yes."

He and Christine scampered off singing, "Papa's a pig, Papa's a pig!"

"Erik, you must beat that boy!" Christine urged.

"If I beat him, I'll have to beat you first. You're the one who called me a pig. Shall I beat you, Darling?" I raised my eyebrow at her, pressing the silent question.

Christine turned scarlet, sipping her wine as her eyes fluttered. Reza busied himself with crumbs on his plate.

"Reza, would you be so good as to keep an eye on Masson for us?"

"Hm? Oh, ah…of course."

"Thank you. Come along, Christine," I took her hand.

"Erik, this is shameful!" she whispered as we climbed the stairs. "Reza knows—"

I stopped her protest with a kiss which made her whimper.

"Stop, I can't catch my breath. I shall faint." She clung to me for support.

"I'll catch you," I promised. "Don't I always?" I battled her skirts until I won my prize. I squeezed her perfect behind. "Christine, I want this," I growled.

"Not on the stairs, Erik, they'll see," she giggled. She managed to scramble away from me; it was exhilarating to chase her the few steps into the bedroom.

"Naughty girl, running from me," I murmured, securing the door. When I turned, she flung her arms around my neck, breathless.

"Don't beat me; kiss me," she commanded, pushing me to my knees.

The midwife had paid an emergency visit and I was fuming.

"I tell you, I don't like that fat little cow, Christine!"

"Well, I have enormous confidence in her," Christine was happily ensconced in bed, looking like a princess.

"Hmph," I humphed. "Prying the most intimate details from you about our marital relations; it's abominable! Salacious cow."

"Erik, she doesn't care what we get up to; she's only trying to find out what went on to cause such violent contractions," she soothed.

"Well, what did she say, anyway? All she did was tell me you're fine."

"She said it would be best if…" Christine lowered her voice to a whisper. "She said I shouldn't…"

"Ah. Right." I nodded; I'd expected as much. "So long as you're alright, Christine."

"Oh, no, Darling," she stroked my ugly cheek and blushed fiercely. "She didn't say we couldn't; she just said I shouldn't …enjoy myself quite so much. If you know what I mean."

"What! That's the most preposterous thing I've ever heard; what are you supposed to do, service me? I'll be damned!"

"You're a wonderful husband, Erik. If you weren't such a marvelous lover, we'd have no trouble." She gave me an Angel smile.

"Well, after all, there's a lot to be said for training a man just how you want him."

"You're a brilliant pupil."

Masson and I were making breakfast. We had to get an early start for a day at the opera house; we couldn't wait for that lazy git, Darius. At the moment, Darius was our only help, and if he'd not turned into such a cantankerous bastard, I'd've been sympathetic about him being so overworked. We'd hired Sylvie back permanently, but she was not due for another week. Anci had wasted no time in bludgeoning Darius into complete submission; consequently, she had weaseled out of returning to work since she'd dropped her calf. This was fine with Christine, since she claimed Anci was too stupid to even wash clothes properly. I took the opportunity to deliver another brilliant line when Christine mentioned it. "Well, she was fine at dusting and making the bed as I recall."

WHACK! "Making a mess of the bed, more likely," she spat. She called me a goat again. Pig, goat; I careened through the barnyard at an alarming rate.

"I used to be a stallion," I whined.

"That was before _she_ moved in," Christine humphed. Why was I still paying for Anci, I wondered? Christine was the one who agreed we could all live together in relative civility. Still, it wouldn't do to bring it up. I'd tried before, and it always ended up that I was taking 'my girlfriend's side'.

Anyway, my boy and I were off to the opera house. He was so excited he was pinging all over the kitchen, and I had to chase him around to get a bite of cereal into his mouth.

"Papa, can we go?" Ping, ping, ping.

"One more bite, Son."

I prepared a little pack with lunch and tidbits to keep him going for the day, and stuffed my pockets with chocolate.

"Let's go kiss Mama goodbye."

I planned to take him underground, show him the trapdoors and my old bachelor flat, take him up in the flys and play with the lights, cover the stage in smoke, of course, take him up to the roof—more than we could accomplish in one day, or even two, but I reckoned I could spend the rest of my life showing him theater magic, and be perfectly happy doing so.


	60. Chapter 60

I took Masson onto the stage and picked him up, encouraging him to hold on tight. I did a bit of phantom magic, and we plunged through the floor. He squealed in delight and squirmed out of control.

"Let me go, Papa!"

"Masson, wait, what did I say?"

"Stay with Papa, hold hands. Eye touching."

"Good man."

We ran to 'the spooky floor', under the stage; how odd it was to see Masson's little lion eyes reflected back at me in the darkness. I brought him back up and into the flies, showed him how to bring the backdrops up and down. I bade him hang on, and we flew across the stage on a rope.

"WHEEEEEEEEE!" he chuckled and kissed me repeatedly. "Papa, you're magic!"

We went underground.

"This is the way I brought your Mama a long time ago."

Masson's eyes glowed huge in the torchlight.

"A boat!" he gasped.

He murmured at the stone gargoyles, reached his hands out for them. I had to grab his collar to stop him going into the drink. He required several trips around the lake before he was willing to go anywhere else.

"Over there, Papa! What's over there?"

"Down there is where I used to live."

"Show me! Show me!" My fat boy rocked the boat in his excitement.

The portcullis rattled up haltingly. Needed maintenance; I made a mental note that I had to make a proper inspection of my lair and stop being such a lazy family man.

"Papa, look!"

"Yes, I know, Son." I handed him out of the boat and he darted off immediately, all warnings forgotten.

"Ah-ah! Masson!" He returned and caught my hand, contritely.

"This is where the piano used to be."

"Look! Pretty Mama!" He scooped up the scattered watercolors. "Can I collect these, Papa?"

I assured him that he could.

I showed him my early-warning system of bells; when we walked the caverns I would show him how they were activated. We sang and hollered in the caverns, enjoying the echoes. I took him into my torture chamber, though I called it a Magic Mirror room. He didn't like it there; the multiple reflections of himself were unsettling.

We made smoke over the lake. Masson thought this was absolutely marvelous, and we had to take another few turns in the boat, picking our way through the fog. We became intrepid jungle explorers. I threw my voice, making exotic animal sounds for him. He pointed out the monkeys and birds he spotted in the imaginary trees.

He wasn't ready to leave my old home, but I wanted to bring him back upstairs. I didn't want him to get too enamored of life in a rat hole. We went up under the managers' office. They were in, and it was delightful to eavesdrop on them from beneath the grate. Masson wanted to see where Christine had lived, and I brought him as close as I could. It would take a special trip to actually get into the dormitories, and I promised to bring him again.

We enjoyed a snack up in the flies and watched some preliminary preparations for the evening's performance before heading home undiscovered. Masson seems to have an instinctive understanding of stealth and silence.

"Papa, why can't we come and live down there?" Masson asked on our way home.

"People don't live underground like rats, Son."

"But you did. It's fun!"

"Just because I did it doesn't mean it's a good thing to do. It's damp, and dark, and cold, and there is no sunshine or fresh air. A person gets sick if he stays down there too long. Children grow up in the light, Masson. Don't worry, we can come and play here when you like."

I set him down in the front hall.

"MAMA! I FOUND OLD PICTURES PAPA MADE OF YOU! LOOK!" He raced upstairs.

If you'd told me I'd be sitting to dinner with pink, foppish Raoul and his pale, plump wife, I'd've told you that you were sadly mistaken, but I was. The initial invitation had been tendered for us to dine at Chagny, but I'm damned if I'm cruising willingly into the lion's den. Christine called me a suspicious fool.

"--bugger that. I'm not walking into a trap," I insisted.

"Trap? Erik, he has a wife. Why would he want to do you harm now?"

"She can't be anything like you, Christine; he's settled for some little chit in a pinch!"

"Manon is not a little chit! She's my friend!" Christine protested.

"He'd still rather have you—any man would."

I nearly cringed when she approached me. I thought I was in for a swat for calling Manon a chit, but she melted into my arms—a pleasant surprise.

"You're so adorable, Erik. You really do think I'm…"

"Yes, I really do."

Right. So, there we were, Masson, Reza, both Christines, me, and the Chagnys, enjoying a fragrant Moroccan stew, luscious crusty bread, and a better wine than Raoul deserved.

The ladies were talking about what they couldn't eat, and the odd things they found themselves wanting. Manon couldn't tolerate even the smell of coffee anymore, and she wanted sweet preserves and salty cheeses together. Christine was off white wine and cheese altogether, and was subject to asking for marrons glaces or candied violets and rose petals at the oddest times of day or night. I had laid in a supply so I could avoid scouring the streets at midnight. Try locating candied flowers at midnight. Bugger Raoul if I was going to give him the benefit of my experience, however.

I was waging a silent battle with Masson over the turnips in his stew as Christine made expectant figure-eights between us when my gallant pink friend cleared his throat.

"They, ah, say some men gain weight in sympathy, Erik; have you, ah, noticed yourself putting on weight?"

"_Me?_" I stared at him blankly. Stupid git.

Reza and Christine laughed. "I'd love to see a portly Erik!" Soon everyone was laughing but me, of course. A table full of laughing adults was too much for Masson. He danced around the table on tip-toe.

"FAT PAPA! FAT PAPA!"

Fortunately, Gaston turned up just as dinner was ending. My fat friend has a nose for frangipane tart. Reza poured brandy and Raoul produced some excellent cigars. With his reporter's gift, Gaston managed to keep the conversation bubbling along relatively well until we all got oiled up and dropped our animosity.

Raoul is a whiny drunk, but I'm a compassionate drunk, so it worked out quite well. He confessed he was scared of fatherhood. What's going to happen to Manon? What's going to happen to his life? What if the child is sickly? Next thing I knew, I was taking the weepy boy under my bony wing and reassuring him like I was his big brother.

I told him how marvelous it is to be a father, about how Masson and I had our regular walks in the park, and the good talks we shared. I assured him that Manon would only love him more when they'd had a child together; none of us men understand it, but we all recognize that it's true. Gaston chimed in with his experience, and we got Raoul sorted out.

Then we started talking about women; we told him about the Persian coffee house, and before we knew it, the four of us were lurching out the door in search of hookahs and sparkly ladies. Raoul proved to be marvelous bait. The dancers fluttered around our table, spellbound by the blond Adonis in our midst. The poor boy had scarcely ever been in such proximity to a bevy of scantily clad lovelies—except, perhaps, at the theater—and he all but came unhinged. I suspected that, like me, he was on a starvation diet where feminine charms were concerned.

We had such a marvelous time, we lost track of the hour, and closed the place. We wobbled home at half-three, stumbling and ssshhhing each other into the parlor, where we awakened the dozing pregnant women. They came fully awake and launched dual broadsides.

"Say goodnight, Raoul," Comtesse Manon tapped her little toe ominously.

"Erik…" he sniffed solemnly.

"Raoul…" I nodded. We fell into each other's arms, giggling. I patted his perfect pink cheek fondly, and he gave me a couple of mushy cheek kisses.

Christine snatched me to my feet, making the room spin precariously. "If this is how you carry on as friends, I liked it better when you were at each other's throats."

We waved weepily at each other as our wives dragged us apart; Raoul to his carriage, me to my coffin, most likely.

"I love you, man!"

"You're a good fop, Raoul!"

"You're a disgrace, old man!" Chistine huffed, pulling me upstairs. "Getting Raoul blotto and dragging him to that den of iniquity!"

"Awww. Christine, it was no den of iniquity, it was a den of…sparkly ba-bas!" I amused myself so much I nearly took myself and Christine ass-over-teacup down the stairs. She cracked me.

"Stop it! You're a mess," she grumbled.

"But I'm your mess," I crooned, making suggestions.

"You'll be my dead mess if you don't watch your hands," she threatened. She only needed to push me slightly off-balance to flop me into my box. Undaunted, I tried to pull her in for a cuddle.

"Chris-teeen…kiss…"

"Egads, it's like you have ten hands--stop it—there's not room for me in there—remember what the midwife said, Erik!" Breathless, she wrestled me away.

"Rub my peepee."

"Rub it yourself, you pickled fiend!"

Christine was still angry with me in the morning. I knew this because she encouraged Masson and Christine to come wake me up.

The door crashed open. Stomp stomp stomp. "PAPA!"

Even with my eyes shut tight, I was seeing stars.

"Masson, ssshhh…"

"WHAT'S WRONG?" He clambered up and plopped his substantial bulk on my queasy stomach.

"Ooooff! Son…"

"PAA-PAA," he whined, bouncing up and down for effect, "MAMA SAYS GET ME BREFTISS, SHE FEELS YUCKY!"

"Unh. Masson," I gasped, "See if Darius—"

"NO!" Bounce bounce. "PAPA! YOU!"

"Alright. Get off…and, Son, let's whisper today."

"_Why?_"

"Because Papa feels yucky today too. Papa's head hurts."

"_Mama said if you feel sick to tell you the wages of sin is deaf._"

"That is 'death', Son. 'The wages of sin is death', but your point is taken. Thank you."


	61. Chapter 61

Raoul joined our cabal after all. Gaston, Reza and me were the three musketeers and he was our young dashing D'Artagnan. We had cheerful Reza, fat Gaston, stupid Raoul and crazy Erik. Hours of drunken debate went into the determination of these defining characteristics. It was agreed that cheerfulness was actually a character flaw when taken to such extremes as Reza did, that Gaston could not be Gaston if he lost weight, and that Raoul was more defined by his stupidity than his beauty, just as my insanity was a more salient characteristic than my ugliness. Once we had it all decided, we congratulated ourselves by heading out into the city to see what trouble we could scare up.

Raoul's name and title won us admission to the most astounding gambling houses and absinthe parlors; if Christine considered the tame little coffeehouse a den of iniquity, she'd've burnt me at the stake for some of the places Raoul dragged us. Sometimes we'd had enough but weren't ready to surrender to our scoldings yet. On those occasions, we'd hole up at a posh whorehouse, the madam of which was a dear old friend of Raoul's. It was just a place to get drunker and smoke one last cigar before we stumbled home. I never did anything naughty. I didn't really have a taste for other women anymore; I know it sounds peculiar, but I suppose that's what a bit of happiness does to a man, even a marginal one like me.

"Papa, what does God look like?"

"I don't know, Son. What do you suppose God looks like? Look—there's a rabbit, see?" We were stretched out on the wall by our duck pond, searching for interesting cloud shapes.

"Mm. And a flower over there! And a dragon! Mama says we can't see God."

"That's true."

"But then how does she know that God put the baby in her tummy?"

"Do you know what a miracle is?"

"Uh-uh."

"A miracle is something really magical, just the most wonderful thing that could happen. All babies are miracles, and God is the only one who can do miracles, so then it makes sense that babies come from God, hm?"

"I'm a miracle, too," he said, tugging at me.

"You are absolutely the biggest and best miracle Mama and I ever saw," I smiled. I sat up so he could climb into my lap as he wished.

After a few more questions, it became clear that Masson wanted some reassurance that his new baby wouldn't be a 'broken miracle', like me. I was glad to see some brotherly feeling had taken root, but his plain-spoken concern had taken my breath away, it wounded me so. He thought I was cross with him, but I assured him I wasn't. I didn't know how to admit to him that there were no guarantees surrounding the new baby. I'm afraid that he'll hate me and Christine someday for gambling with his life; for selfishly making him, unconcerned with how he'd turn out.

I distracted him by producing a chocolate from behind his ear. My son and his Christine raced along home ahead of me. When I turned the last corner, he bounded from the front steps and flew into my arms. He patted my mask with his chubby hands just as he'd done the day we met.

"Papa, I love you."

"And I love you, Masson." He rested his head on my shoulder; he still had that sweet baby smell about him. I squeezed him tightly; how I longed to keep him that way forever.

After Masson was asleep, I told Christine that he was worried about the baby being like me. Avoiding my gaze, she promised she would talk with him. No, don't, I said, he didn't mean anything by it. I pulled her close, trying to comfort her when I had no comfort to give. So there it lay, between us: the curse of my ugliness. Had I marked this child? Were Masson's children cursed? Had we tempted God one too many times, demanding a second perfect infant? We clung to each other in the dark. We had nothing to say. After several hours, exhaustion claimed Christine, so I slipped away from her.

I went down to my lair and flagellated myself mercilessly. It was a blasphemy for me ever to lay hands on Christine, much less get a child on her. It was a blasphemy for me to imagine she could really overlook what I am. I crumpled to the damp stone floor in despair, demonic voices swirling around me. My precious Angel had kept them at bay for so long...

_Surely you didn't think this fairy tale game you've played could go on forever?_

Yes, I did; I thought she'd exorcised you!

_Exorcised us? Exorcised you, you mean! We're you, Erik._

No, not anymore. I've been good.

_How can you be good? Look at yourself! Where do you see goodness?_

Christine sees the goodness in me. Reza says I've changed!

_Who's been with you from the beginning? Not Christine…not Reza. You can't fool us; we know you. We and you know the truth of it._

I'm learning; I am different! Christine says--

_We'll see what Christine says when the monster escapes from her perfect body. She'll be unable to pretend when she realizes that your pollution has utterly engulfed her!_

No…

_You know it's true, Erik. Look at Masson. Look at his eyes when his temper flares. Beautiful though he may be, will he make an assassin when he's grown?_

I stumbled up blackened alleys, the voices in hot pursuit. I was so disoriented that I had no idea where I was running; even in my kingdom below the opera house I was lost. I thought I was headed to the street, but I pushed open a door and found myself exiting the false column into Box 5. I wailed and threw myself to the orchestra below, turning my ankle. Still the voices came. I couldn't outrun the voices, I knew, as I scrabbled onto the stage.

How high can I go? If I can get to the roof…

_You won't end it, you pathetic dog; you haven't the nerve._

I can and I will! I'll be rid of you!

I swung up into the flies and made short work of fashioning a lasso. All the while the voices taunted me.

_Do it! Do what your bitch of a mother lacked the courage to do, if you think you're man enough! DO IT!_

It was easy to slip the lasso over my head, easy to step free of the flies, almost like watching another man from a great distance. Then, Christine singing and a shower of fireworks in my mind's eye.


	62. Chapter 62

I am not dead; as least I hope I am not dead, because I'm in unbelievable pain. Perhaps I am dead; leave it to the Almighty to do it to me again. Now I'm dead, can't You find another ugly bastard to abuse?

Violin. Alright, I feel sleepy; perhaps this is the good part of being dead coming up.

I awaken; still violin, still pain. I open my eyes…not dead, damn it all. How much more of a failure can a man be than when he can't even kill himself?

My beautiful baby sits beside me, playing Concerto in D. The stupid cat is probably the weight I feel by my feet. Oh, god, my head.

"Papa?" Masson has noticed I'm awake after a fashion. "MAMA!"

"What?" Christine's voice and rustling; she's here. I try to turn my head to see her…no. My neck. I groan but no sound emerges.

"Ssshhh, keep still; don't speak." Christine is here, soothing my brow. She does not know what I've attempted; she believes it was an accident. I know this because her eyes show the same love and tenderness as ever.

"Don't cry, my Angel; I'm here." It hurts to cry, hurts to draw a breath.

"What is it?" Reza's voice. "I heard—well, there he is." Reza smiles at me. He squeezes my hand and departs, moved.

It hurts too much to stay awake.

Christine tries to get me to take broth, or wine; anything. It hurts too much to swallow. If I was a dog she'd let me die. I wish I could speak.

I close my eyes again and hear her arguing with Reza. He wants her to lie down, rest somewhere else and let him watch over me. She won't leave me. Why won't she give up on me?

Christine is crying. Reza is telling her how wonderful she's been for me, all the remarkable changes she's wrought.

"No one can mend all his wounds, Christine. Erik must find a way to love himself, too. It's not enough that we love him."

My son sleeps with me, plays for me, sings to me. He asks his mother when my neck will be better, when will I get out of bed and take him to the park again. She says soon.

This morning, I felt slightly better when I awoke. I still could not speak. Christine and I had a pen/paper and voice argument.

"COFFEE"

"Erik, if it hurts to swallow, it would be so much better for you to tak a bit of broth instead of coffee."

"COFFEE"

"Please, just a little bit, for me?"

"COFFEE"

"_Fine._"

Christine met Reza in the hallway.

"How is he this morning?"

"Impossible."

"He must be feeling better then, my dear. Take heart."

"PAAPAA! PA-PA, PA-PA, PA-PA!" Masson thundered in and began bouncing on the bed.

"Can you talk?"

I shook my head and wondered if my neck would ever stop hurting.

"Can we go to the park today?"

I tried to say "I don't know, I'll try."

Christine returned with a cup and ordered Masson off the bed and downstairs for breakfast.

I took a sip. Broth.

"WHAT HAPPENED?"

Christine read my scribbling and sighed.

"Reza knew something was troubling you...it was obvious when you and Masson returned from your walk. So, he sat up late in case you came down to talk with him. Finally, he decided you weren't coming. Luckily, he was headed for bed just as you made your way downstairs and out the door. He followed you. You see? Another second or two, and you would have made a success of it."

I could not read her tight little smile.

"He brought you home and saw to you; he said he knew you wouldn't want a doctor. At first, he told me you'd had a fall. He didn't want to upset me anymore that I already was."

She buried her face in her hands. She looked so tired and discouraged.

"What is it, Erik? I understand that you're suffering somehow. But did you even bother to think of Masson, fatherless? Me, with another child here inside me? It's Budapest all over again!"

I shook my head fiercely despite the pain. No, it wasn't like that at all.

"I'M AFRAID YOU'LL HATE ME IF THE CHILD IS UGLY."

"So you were going to leave me to deal with it all alone? BASTARD!" She thumped me hard in the chest.

"CHRISTINE. I'M SORRY. AS USUAL, I DID NOT THINK. MY MIND RAN AWAY WITH ME. I LOVE YOU."

Christine crumpled the note up.

"But you did think, Erik. You thought of yourself."

I had no answer for that.

"I don't really want to discuss this now. I'm going to have my baby any day. Make yourself useful; take Masson for a walk."

It was a relatively quiet walk. I could manage a painful rasp when I tried to speak, but I could not bear to walk silently with my chatterbox. He stayed close and would not let go of my hand, except to feed the ducks.

"Papa, did you fall?"

I nodded.

"Why?"

"It was an accident, Son. I told you the opera is a dangerous place."

He nodded thoughtfully.

"How did your voice get hurt?"

"I don't remember, Masson," I confessed.

"When will it be better?"

"I don't know."

"We should be quiet so you can save it up. I'll tell you a story." We walked through the park and he made animal noises for me. Children are all forgiveness.

We circled past the candy store. I am not sure how long I was in bed, but Masson assured me he needed coins, and probably Mama needed marrons glaces and flowers. I brought a rose home for her as well.

"MAMA! LOOK! CANDY FLOWERS!" Christine received the box from Masson with a genuine smile.

"Oh, what a wonderful treat, Masson; thank you!" Beaming, he raced upstairs, on to the next item on his agenda. Christine straightened slowly and painfully. I moved to offer her my arm, which she accepted with a nod. She rejected the proffered rose.

"Save it, Erik. Help me get upstairs."

Masson was playing violin next door. I settled Christine on the bed and kissed her forehead.

"Stop it," she whispered, irritated. "I need you to get your junk out of that room and set up Masson's big-boy bed. I have spoken to Reza; your piano will have to go into the library."

"My coffin?" I rasped.

"Take it back to your lair," she ordered flatly. She grimaced and tried to fuss with her pillows. "Help me!"

I struggled to remain calm as I rearranged the pillows for her. Is she sending me away?

"Do you want anything, Christine?"

She nodded, clutching her belly. "Rub my feet?"

I watched the tension drain from her body as I massaged my little ballerina's feet. As useless as I felt, I was grateful to be able to do something, no matter how insignificant.

"Erik, I may doze awhile," she sighed.

"Of course, Angel."

"Don't go far," she advised.


	63. Chapter 63

After Christine dropped off to sleep, I went down to the parlor. Reza regarded me just as blankly as Christine had.

"What, do you hate me now, too?" I rasped.

He winced at the sound of my voice. "None of us hates you, my friend."

I poured a brandy and flopped on the sofa. "How long was I lying up there?"

"Three days, not long."

"I suppose I should thank you," I confessed.

"Don't; I know you would have preferred that I let you go. I was thinking of Christine and the children. Someone must, you see." He smiled in his kind, gentle way; so at odds with the words he spoke.

"I thought you said you didn't hate me," I accused.

"I don't hate you, but I am fed up with you at long last," he half chuckled.

My face felt hot, smarting as if it had been slapped. "Christine told me to clean out my room for Masson. She says the piano can come downstairs."

"Yes, we've discussed it," he nodded.

"She told me to take my coffin back to my lair."

It seemed I waited forever for Reza to answer me. "Daroga! Say something!" I squeaked when I tried to shout.

"What do you want me to say? Shall I reassure you that she loves you, that surely she'll forgive you AGAIN? That everything will be fine? How many times, Erik?" he demanded.

"Daroga—"

"No, don't cry to me about how frightened you are, how sorry you are, how confused and pathetic you are. If you're that much of a mess—which I no longer dispute—then you had a responsibility to leave that girl alone." His finger stabbed at the ceiling in the direction of the room I shared--or, should I say, used to share--with Christine. "She has nothing, Erik. She gave up her reputation to be with you—everything, she gave up everything. And you, who claim to love her so desperately…time and again you abandon her!"

I hung my head. After all these years, my old friend was berating me, making me cry. "I wasn't trying to abandon her, Reza. It was the pain, I just wanted to make the pain stop!"

"And it's alright for you to end your pain at the expense of Christine and your children? What of the unbelievable pain your death would have inflicted on them? Even now, that dear woman blames herself for being unable to erase all your suffering. Erik…don't you even _want_ to be a man for her sake?"

"How?" I wailed. "How shall I be a man?"

Reza leapt up and snatched me to my feet. He shook me so hard I had to clutch my throat. I gasped and choked; pleading for him to stop.

"You stop running, Erik! You plaster yourself to her side and let her lean on you for a change! You swallow your doubts and fears! What, do you think no other man feels afraid? You think that you have to be a disfigured madman to feel unworthy? Everyone feels unworthy! We do the right thing anyway!" He groaned with rage and threw me back onto the sofa. "Get away from me, Erik. You know how I hate feeling angry."

I went to the kitchen, feeling lost. Silke was puttering around; she asked if she could get something for Christine, so I went up to see if she was awake. Masson was curled up asleep with his Mama. My son, my wife…priceless evidence of my ultimate failure.

I crawled over to Christine's bible on the bedside table. I drew it onto my lap with trembling hands. Was there any peace inside those pages for me?

'When I was a child, I spake as a child, I felt as a child, I thought as a child: now that I am become a man, I have put away childish things.'

'Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.'

The delicate, well-thumbed pages smelled of Christine's perfume. I laid my head upon the book and closed my eyes. I didn't want to cry anymore, it made my throat hurt.

I was awakened by thumping feet. "Potty! Potty!" Masson dashed out of the room. I sat up and returned Christine's bible to the table. Christine was stirring.

"Ooooh. Erik?"

I caught her hand. "Right here, Love."

She stretched and shook her head at the sound of my voice. "Don't speak. It hurts to speak, doesn't it?"

I indicated that it did, a bit.

"Mama! I did it! Come see!" Masson was beaming. In his excitement to deliver the news, he'd left his pants behind.

"Show Papa, darling," she smiled weakly. She was not well; I wanted to get back to her quickly. I congratulated Masson on his achievement, helped him dress and wash his hands, and gave him a chocolate prize.

When I returned to Christine, she was flailing like a turtle on its back, trying to get out of bed. I helped her up. It felt marvelous to hold her, even if it was just to haul her from the bed.

"Erik, will you please help me get into a bed gown?" I grabbed the first gown I touched in the drawer.

"No, not that one; an older one, so I won't mind it being ruined. Is the pink one in there?"

Ruined gown? Ruined gown? What the devil does that mean, I wondered. Was she--? It must have shown in my eyes: confusion, panic. Christine chuckled and rubbed her belly.

"Yes, I think the baby's coming. Here." She took my hand and placed it on her belly. "Wait a minute. You'll feel my whole tummy get hard."

While we waited, Christine ran down her list of what I was to do. "Please tell Silke I'll need her and Reza to look after Masson." She saw me register surprise."Oh, no; I'll need you here, to hold my hand," she smiled. It was almost the smile of my old Christine. Suddenly, I saw her eyes darken slightly, her face tighten. "Here, feel that?"

It was true; her entire belly got hard. Oh, god.

"Does it hurt?" I worried.

"Not yet," she patted my hand reassuringly. "Come; help me get out of my clothes. Did you clear out your room yet?"

"N-not yet…" I confessed haltingly, slipping her dress from her shoulders. She whacked my arm; it stung horribly.

"Erik! You only have a few hours! Get that room cleared out, now!"

I began to race off.

"Wait, you ninny! Help me get undressed—then clear the room out!"

"What about the midwife?" I offered, utterly adrift as to the right thing to do.

"No need to send word to her yet. I'm sure it won't be anytime soon."

Once Christine was comfortable in her gown, she waddled off to the bathroom. I shadowed her, wringing my hands.

"Erik, don't worry. I'm fine; go clean out the Big Boy room," she laughed at my discomfort as I dashed off.

I ran into the coffin room—the Big Boy room—whatever. What to do? I'd forgotten my instructions. Tell Silke something…I stumbled downstairs. I threw myself into the parlor. No one there. I raced back to the kitchen. Good, everyone was there: Darius, Silke, Reza, Masson.

"Baby. Baby," I gasped. I turned and scrambled back upstairs.


	64. Chapter 64

I got Masson's new bedroom cleared out quickly; working on nervous energy, I suppose. I would have to hire some men in to move the piano, and I didn't want to leave Christine to take the coffin to the lair, so I dragged it downstairs and set it up by the front door. I'd see to it as soon as possible.

I ran downstairs to ask Silke where I might find linens for Masson's bed.

"YAY! BIG BOY BED! BIG BOY BED!" He darted up the stairs. By the time I got back upstairs, he was bouncing up and down and shrieking with delight. I sat on the bed and gathered him up.

"Here, Big Boy." I set him down with his pillow and pillowcase; that would keep him busy for awhile. I completed the rest of the bed, and had his books and toys arranged on the shelves; he was still wrestling with the pillow. He did not like to give up when he put his mind to something.

"I'm going to look in on Mama, Son."

He raced out ahead of me, dragging pillow and case behind. "MAMA! My bed is there, and my books and toys!"

"Ssshhh! Masson! Mama is resting!" I scolded.

"It's alright," Christine lied, obviously awakened. I helped her to scoot into a sitting position as Masson and Christine climbed onto the bed. "So, your big boy bed is all ready, and you use the potty like a big boy." Christine rumpled Masson's hair and drew him in for a cuddle. "I think you're ready to be a big brother. What do you think?" she asked him solemnly.

Masson nodded emphatically.

"I'm glad you're ready, because guess what? Your new baby is coming."

"NOW?" Masson's eyes and mouth were round and huge.

"Soon, my big boy. Perhaps the baby will be here tomorrow."

Masson placed his chubby hands on Christine's tummy and tried to jiggle it. "Mama, get it out now!"

"The baby has to come at his own speed, Darling."

Masson placed his lips to Christine's tummy. "Hurry!" he called. "What is his name, Mama?"

"I don't know, Masson. We don't know if the baby is a boy or a girl until it's born, so once we know, then we'll decide about the name."

I grimaced as I watched the huge toddler climb all over Christine's belly, but she smiled and cuddled him. It appeared he was doing her no harm, so I kept my mouth shut.

"Christine!" Masson suggested.

"Oh, no! How will we keep all the Christines straight?" she laughed.

"Mama Christine, baby Christine, kitty Christine!"

"We'll see. Go get your bath with Papa now, it's almost time for bed, my big boy."

"NO! I want to wait for the baby! NO!"

I caught him by the arms as he clung to Christine. He nearly tore her gown from her shoulders as she reassured him. He was having none of it, swinging and kicking. The last time he had a fit that vicious, he was much lighter and easier to hold. I wrestled him into the bathroom and took some impressive lumps while I ran his bath.

"NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! MAAA-MAAA!" I knew the signs; he was about to make himself ill. I tried to soothe him, but I'm sure he couldn't hear me over his own shrieking. I had a momentary thought: what if my voice never returns?

Finally out of options, I plonked him into the tub. The water shocked him silent for a moment; then he began to wail.

"Paa-puuh-huuh…" My fat wet boy crawled up my shirt and wrapped around me. "I waa-haant to suh-hee the ba-huuh-beeee."

"And so you shall, Masson. Don't worry, Son, the baby will be here for a long time." I walked back and forth across the bathroom floor, bouncing and patting him. "But it's no place for little boys when babies come. We don't want to distract Mama."

"I'm a big boy, I'll be quiet," he bargained.

"Masson, it's not even a place for big boys. Papa will hold Mama's hand for awhile, but then a nice lady will come and help Mama; Papa won't even be there. It's a thing for ladies, when babies come."

"When the baby gets out I can see it?" he sniffed, sucking his fingers again.

"Oh, yes; everyone will see the baby then—of course we'll get to see the baby first, because you're the Big Brother and I'm the Papa."

Well, that sounded just fine to him. He klunked his head down on my bony shoulder, sucked his fingers and swung his feet. We took a few more turns around the bathroom before I refreshed the water and he acquiesced to a bath.

It was a quick bath; as soon as he was dressed for bed he dashed back in to see Christine in case the baby was there.

"MAAAA-MAAAA!" Masson's howl shot through me like lightning; all the hair on my body stood up. I dropped towels and toys, abandoned the wet floor and flew to the bedroom. I skidded to a halt, nearly falling over Masson, clutching Christine (the cat). I stared dumbfounded at the empty bed.

"Bloody goddam hell!" I swore, completely forgetting about the boy. I tore from the room and downstairs, mind reeling, unable to come up with any explanation whatsoever. I almost crashed into Christine as she rolled through the dining room.

I grabbed her by the arm. "Where in bloody blazes are you going, woman?" I squeaked. "Call your son! He's hysterical!"

"What? I got tired of lying around," she protested, as if it's perfectly fine to disappear from your childbed without a word to anyone. "I wanted to walk around, there's no harm."

"For god's sake, Christine," I sputtered.

"Frightening when your loved one disappears on you, isn't it?" she murmured pointedly, waddling toward the stairs and calling for Masson. The boy sped downstairs and into her arms, cooing her name softly. Neither of us took him to task for patting her breasts as he assured himself that she was not lost.

While Masson 'helped' Christine stretch her legs, I floated into the kitchen for a glass of wine. Silke pressed me into a chair and force fed me something; I don't know what, I only knew she wasn't going to let me up until I was a good boy and cleaned my plate. I insisted I felt ill; she insisted she didn't care. Tough woman.

Anci wandered in, asked after Christine and proceeded in her direction. In a few minutes I heard a bit of sniping and went to mediate.

"I was just trying to help!" Anci insisted the moment I appeared.

"I don't want her helping me, Erik!" Christine snapped.

"I don't care what you say, Christine, she's the only woman here with any experience besides you, so there's nothing for it. She'll stand by until the midwife comes."

"Says who?" she growled. God, she'd turned snippy in a heartbeat.

"Say I, Madame Rouen, and you're in no position to argue it. Come along upstairs now, before I get cross." Strangely, something pleased Christine about the tone I took with her, and she accepted my help with a twinkle in her eye. I settled her back in bed with Masson and Christine right beside her. I installed Anci nearby in the big comfy chair and thanked her for her kindness.

"OOH! ERIK!" Christine gasped, once again sending me out of my skin. Anci approached, and she and Christine exchanged something wordless. Christine reached for my hand.

"Masson, darling, give Mama kisses. Madam Anci will take you for hot chocolate and a biscuit before bed."

"Mama," he whined, "I want to wait for the baby." He worked his big baby eyes and sucked on his fingers.

"Darling, the baby won't be here for a long time. You want to get your rest in your big boy bed now, so you'll be ready to help me once it comes." She smiled, but I noticed she was squeezing my hand ever tighter.

"NO!" he frowned.

"Masson…"

"NO!" he kicked out, landing a glancing, completely accidental blow to Christine's hip. Immediately he realized his terrible error, and began to wail his apology. No matter, I hauled him up and out, and gave him a swat for his trouble.

"No chocolate and biscuit. Straight to bed, Sir."

"Papa, no! MAA-MAA!"

He was overwrought, over-tired, and all it needed was a bit of rocking for me to get him to sleep. Please let the baby be here by morning, I prayed, though I had no idea whether it was likely or not. I tucked him into his big boy bed and returned to Christine.

Anci bumped into me, going as I was coming. "I am sending for the midwife."

"What? Already?"

Anci shrugged.

"Oh, Jesus Christ." I entered the room like a sleepwalker. Christine smiled with relief and reached for my hand as I crouched beside the bed. "Christine, please tell me the truth. Is everything alright, or is something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm just surprised it's nearing the hard part so quickly."

"Does it hurt much?" I worried.

"Yes, it hurts very much," she admitted, "but not all the time, yet."

"Jesus." I fretted.

"Poor Erik, it's much more fun making babies than having them, isn't it? Don't worry."

Easier said than done, I reflected. I kissed Christine's hand helplessly.

"He went off to sleep, then?" she asked.

I nodded. "He's overwrought."

Uncharacteristically, the momentary silence between us felt strange. "Erik, listen. I've asked Silke," she patted my hand, "if something should happen, to take Masson and the baby."

I snatched my hand from her, horrified. "Christine! If something should happen? You said nothing's wrong! What are you talking about?"

"No, nothing is wrong, Darling, but…anything could happen. It only makes sense to take precautions. I would have preferred Manon, but she is a married woman. Besides, it's best for Masson that he stays here, in his home, with the people he knows."

"No! No, I won't hear this!" I began to pace. "What do you mean, parceling out our babies and talking of dying?"

"Erik," she sighed. "Erik, come here." She held out her arms to me and I rushed into them. Crushing me to her, she stroked my head gently. "You must promise me you'll let Silke take care of you, too. I know she's not been with us long, but she's got a big heart, and you can't raise the babies alone."

"No! No one but you is raising our babies! I beg of you, no more!"

"Listen to me, Erik!" she insisted. "I need to know that you'll be alright!"

"But I won't be alright! Don't say these things, Christine!"

She grasped my head fiercely and forced me to look at her. "You will be alright; you can do this if you must. You're strong, Erik! Tell me you'll be alright!" She stared at me, willing the words from my lips. How long she held me thus, I don't know.

At last: "I'll be alright, Christine." I surrendered.

Satisfied, she pulled me close again."Come, hold me. Maybe we can catch a bit of sleep," she whispered. I spooned up with her. Incredibly, in a matter of minutes her breathing came regular and I realized she'd dropped off to sleep.

Before I dozed, I thought that it wasn't a lie Christine had extracted from me, but a promise. God forbid she didn't make it through; I would be alright. I had to.


	65. Chapter 65

Christine slept well for several hours. The moment she stirred, I sat bolt upright, wide awake.

"Help me up," she ordered sleepily. I helped her to the bathroom and she sent me off to get her a drink. The house was dark and quiet; it was past midnight. I realized with rapidly mounting irritation that we'd heard nothing from Anci, so I took it upon myself to pound on Darius' door. Lucky for him I didn't crash in and drag him from his hot little marriage bed.

When I finally managed to rouse him, he glared at me; I ignored this, confident I would win the Ill-humored Husband contest.

"Your wife went after the midwife hours ago; where is she?"

"She's asleep; she has an infant to see to, you know," he grumbled.

"Look, you, wake her _now _and find out where the goddam midwife is."

Finally, Anci wandered to the door, bleary-eyed. "She wasn't there. She was having a baby somewhere else, so I came home."

"_So you came home? _Get out and find me a midwife, or I'll come in there and _eat your baby,_" I hissed.

She squeaked and ran off, horrified; exactly as I'd intended. Darius reappeared and advised he'd go in search of a midwife. I managed to grumble a 'thank you' before dashing back to Christine.

I helped her to get as comfortable as possible and realized I'd forgotten her drink.

"It's alright, I'd rather have you than a drink," she smiled.

"How do you feel? Do you feel badly?"

"Nooo. I feel like I'm going to have a baby," she smiled, then giggled. "I'm alright. It's better than last time, so far."

She encouraged me to keep busy rubbing her back. "Oooh, you have such nice hands," she sighed. I tried to pray, but I couldn't remember anything, except "Rub-a-dub-dub, Thanks for the grub, Go God Go, Amen." I taught it to Masson, but it sent Christine so far up the flagpole we both had to swear never to repeat it again. Right, it was all I could remember; so I mumbled it over and over like the old Muslim men worrying their beads.

Finally Darius knocked.

"What?"

"There's no midwives. I—I don't know where all the midwives are. I can't find any."

I was less than a second from choking him right there in the doorway.

"Erik…" Christine called tightly.

"Go get a doctor, then," I spat.

"A doctor? Just for bringing a--a baby?" Darius was nonplussed.

"Erik!" Christine again; more urgently.

"Goddammit! Tell him it's the Comtesse de Chagny!"

Darius' eyes went wide, as if he'd never thought of telling a lie before.

I grabbed him and shook him hard. "Well, she is! GO GET THE FUCKIN' DOCTOR, MAN!"

"ERIK!"

I scrambled in and clutched her hand. She actually had droplets of sweat on her upper lip. I'd never seen sweat on her before...I couldn't decide how I felt about it.

"Angel…don't worry, the midwife's coming."

"Liar!" she gasped.

"I sent Darius after the doctor. Stupid Persian fucking git can't find a goddam midwife!"

"Oh," she laughed weakly, "no, don't make me laugh. You swear like a professional!"

I laughed, or cried…something. "Christine, I'm scared."

"There's no time, Erik. I need you to…Erik…" She turned into someone else then, not Christine; Woman. Every woman, doing what women have always done.

"Oh, Jesus, shit. Shit. Shit. Let's wait for the doctor, Christine," I pleaded. She didn't look like she was considering it, so I tore downstairs to wake the household. In my state it seemed a reasonable idea.

"REZA!" I thumped his door twice, but couldn't wait. I threw the door open and pounced on him. "Get up, man, I need…I don't know. Get up!"

"I'll…um…"

I was back with Christine before he wobbled to his feet.

"What can I do for you, Angel?"

"Hold my hand…no. Help me get up. I want to get up," she panted.

"I don't think so, Christine, I don't think so…"

"_HELP ME UP!_" She screamed like a demon.

Silke appeared with towels and water and a gigantic pair of kitchen shears.

"What the hell are they for?" I demanded, my eyes all but jumping out of my head.

"Don't worry," Silke whispered.

Christine did everything; I was useless except for the physical strength I provided to help her move around. She rocked back and forth on her hands and knees when she could; when she couldn't, she panted and sweated a lot. So tiny; there was nothing to her but skin and bones and a huge baby belly. Standing there, I really hated what I'd done to her. Why do women do this?

Something changed. Christine waved an irritated, summoning hand at me. "My back…have to push." She made the most terrifying sounds…exquisitely beautiful primal songs.

"It won't be long now, Sir," Silke encouraged. She startled me; I hadn't realized she had stayed. I stared at her, trying to remember what she was doing there, what I was doing there. My mind had completely emptied.

"You'd better, um, have a look," she suggested, blushing.

"Look at what?" I demanded, horrified.

"Um…"

"Erik, Erik, I need to push! ERIK!" Christine had reached back and gripped the headboard. Her entire body said, I'm doing this now whether you help or not. Suddenly everything slowed down and every detail leapt out at me.

I looked at Christine, and there was already something to see; something I now know was the baby's head. At the time I had no idea what it was, or why it kept appearing and disappearing. Soon enough, it wasn't disappearing anymore.

"Christine, I don't think it can be too long now," I called to her. I hoped that was good news.

Christine howled and the baby's head popped out.

"Oh. God."

Christine seemed momentarily relieved, though she still had to squeeze the rest of it out. She barely had a chance to catch her breath when she howled again and the rest of the baby came shooting out. Strictly on instinct, I caught it. It was red, and it looked like it was covered in wax; not the most human specimen I've ever seen. But its face was perfect and it looked like it had all its parts, scrunched up and red though they were.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, the doctor had appeared, superfluous bastard that he was, and he bustled up and proceeded to take charge.

"Erik," Christine called, reaching out for the baby. I put it on her belly. One of Christine's hands went to the baby's head, one extended toward me. "Boy or girl? Boy or girl, Erik?"

I didn't know; I hadn't looked. I wanted to see it had a face, arms and legs! I brushed Christine's soaked curls back and kissed her face repeatedly. My tears mingled with her sweat as she fussed with the baby.

"Girl! It's a girl, Erik; my little angel!" Christine purred happily, all suffering forgotten, apparently. I couldn't speak; I was in awe of this little woman who'd never looked so beautiful.


	66. Chapter 66

The doctor inspected the baby and pronounced her a success. She weighed nearly eight pounds, a respectable size for a girl baby. He saw to Christine and promised to return and monitor her recovery. Before he left, he gave me high marks for soldiering through Christine's ordeal; I could not imagine what alternative he thought I had at the time.

When I looked at the tiny girl, I couldn't believe Masson had ever been like her. Of course, she was smaller, and a girl, but she looked so fragile. When she cried, it was nothing like the sound Masson made when I first met him. Her cries were so soft; I doubted one would hear her even in the next room. Those cries made me ache inside. I longed to rush to her and do…I don't know what, but something to satisfy her cries.

Christine seemed a bit tired but, interestingly, energized as well; not too tired to hold court as she nursed her new daughter. She would have that drink of water now; and a new nightgown, please; but first, I was to get new linens on the bed immediately. Right.

Reza was glowing so brightly when I entered the kitchen that I was nearly blinded. He clapped me in his arms and bestowed a ridiculous array of kisses upon me. "A beautiful baby girl, Erik! Silke said you outdid yourself! Come, have a drink with me!"

"Let me be, you unmarried bastard! What, do you think I'm off duty? Silke, may I have fresh linens, please?" I squeaked.

"How is Christine?" Reza asked.

"Christine is doing quite well, but the dairy is open and she's looking for something to drink. I must return." I accepted the fresh linens. "Thank you, Silke. Please get some rest."

As I rushed from the room, I realized I'd hurt Uncle Reza's feelings. I stopped and embraced him fondly. "Daroga, let's have a drink tomorrow when Christine can join us. It's just that if I stop now…" My eyes filled and my lip wobbled uncontrollably.

"Oh, there you go, a blubbering new father. Here, take my handkerchief and get back to your wife," Reza smiled.

By the time I returned to Christine and the baby, we already had a situation. The problem was, Christine wanted to wash up while I fixed the bed, but she didn't want to leave the new pink bundle under my watchful but apparently incompetent eye. I didn't want to leave Christine alone to wash up just yet. I simply could not believe she should be—much less could be—up and about. Since the tiny angel had drifted off to sleep, it seemed a perfect opportunity. I could assist Christine with her toilette, the little one dreaming peacefully in her crib, and we could return to the bedroom in a matter of minutes. However, the idea of leaving the baby, immobile as she was, alone in the crib, was a vile, heinous, and immoral idea. In response to my concerns about her own welfare, Christine insisted there was nothing wrong with her. Women have babies all the time; it's silly to lie about in bed, Erik.

Oh.

Ultimately, I was allowed to accompany Christine to the bathroom and hold the baby while she freshened up. Then, the pair settled into the big chair while I fixed the bed for them. Christine and I agreed that we'd choose a name for the little princess in the morning. We'd let Masson have a vote…but no more Christines! Finally, my girls were fresh and cozy in bed and I staggered to the big chair.

"Erik, please come lie down with us."

"I don't think so, Christine. She's too tiny, what if I roll over? "

"Just come cuddle for awhile, and then I'll get in the middle so you won't worry."

"Then she'll fall off the edge!" I panicked.

"No; I won't let her go, Erik."

I lay down gingerly, afraid I'd awaken the little one just from disturbing the bed. She was still unreal to me, this tiny living thing.

"Erik, she's so perfect…thank you for my perfect baby girl…" Christine whispered. "Do you realize what you did today, Erik? You were amazing; I'm so proud of you." She leaned across the baby to kiss me.

"I didn't do anything, Christine; you're the amazing one. People say every birth is a miracle, but I wonder how many really learn the truth of it. You should have seen yourself today! You're a miracle, Christine."

"I'm so glad you were with me, Erik," she murmured. Sleep was descending.

"I wouldn't have been anywhere else, Angel. I'll never forget today."

Christine rearranged the baby and snuggled into me. I slipped my arm around her and fell asleep instantly.

Christine and I were both jarred awake—Masson crying. I bolted into his room. He was sitting up in bed. I was glad to see he'd not bounced out on his head, and his crying was more of the sad variety than hurt or sick.

"Paa-paa…I went pee-pee…"

I heaved a sigh of relief and scooped up the soggy little man.

"It's alright, Son; sometimes we make mistakes when we're learning new things. You slept a long time, there's no harm done. Papa will fix the bed and no one will know, alright?"

He nodded and sucked his fingers. I stripped the bed one-handed.

"There: see? Now we'll get a fresh nightshirt, have a quick wash-up in the bathroom, and Masson is good as new."

As I pulled the new nightshirt over his head, I asked, "So, what would you like to do next? Go have breakfast, or say good morning to Mama and meet your new baby sister?"

"BABY SISTER! BABY SISTER!"

Well, the household was up now, definitely.

"Right, but no hollering, remember when you met Fahim." I tried to restrain the wildly bouncing bear, but he was nearly solid enough to pull spindly Papa along.

"Ssshhh," Masson remembered.

We knocked softly.

"Come in, we're awake," Christine called.

Masson darted in the door ahead of me, but was suddenly overcome with shyness when he spied the ladies in bed. He ducked behind me, clutching my leg and sucking his fingers.

"Masson, come see," Christine encouraged him. "We have an important job today; we must find a name for our new baby."

Masson would not move of his own accord, but if my leg moved, he would go forward with it. Thus we reached the side of the bed. He balanced on tiptoe to have a look at the bundle. His eyebrows knit into a frown when he realized exactly what was going on between the baby and Christine. Christine caught his angry expression at the same moment I did.

"See how new babies have to eat?" she smiled. "Remember when you were a tiny baby? Now, you're able to have chocolate, and jam and bread, and you can drink from a big-boy cup, and cuddle with Mama just the same as always. Would you like to come up and cuddle now?"

No, he shook his head vehemently; he most certainly would not, thank you very much. It didn't appear to me that he was buying any of that chocolate, jam and bread nonsense either. I cast a worried glance at Christine; she either didn't see or was ignoring me.

"Shall I lift you so you can see her better, Son?" I offered.

No, thank you; he wasn't interested in that either. I decided now was a good time to panic; the day was going to hell even more quickly than I had imagined.

The baby was full for the moment, and Christine popped her onto her shoulder and gave her a couple of thumps on the back. The sight of his former ba-ba was too much for Masson.

"Mama," he whined pitifully, and climbed into Christine's lap. He didn't even make a pretense of trying to leave room for the pink interloper as he took possession of Christine's breast. I opened my mouth to protest, but Christine gave me a Look. We had a brief parental visual conversation and I shut up.

"There; you see?" Christine smiled. She settled the dozing baby in one arm and cuddled Masson with the other. "You may do that if you like, but you have choices because you're a big boy. You're able to do so many more things than your little sister can." Masson decided he could suck on his fingers just as well, so long as he monopolized Mama's lap and kept his cheek against her breast. Christine raised a quick eyebrow at me; I conceded the point.

I sat in the big chair; all was quiet in the bed as Masson stared at his new sister. I had nearly dozed off when he asked, "Why is it pink?"

"Because her skin is brand new. When you get a scrape, and the covering comes off, the skin underneath is brand new and pink, isn't it?" Mothers seem to have answers for everything.

The baby yawned—a funny sight. Masson giggled.

"Look! Silly baby, see that? Do you see any teeth in there?" Christine asked. Masson shook his head. "No, not even one tooth and you with all your teeth!" Masson giggled again. His body posture and increased wiggling suggested that he was relaxing, if not exactly warming to the baby's presence.

"Mama, we can name it Christine."

There's a surprise.

"We already have two Christines, Darling. I'm sure Christine doesn't want to share his name with the baby _and _me. Can you think of another name?"

"Erik," he replied immediately.

"Erik is a fine name, but it's a boy's name." Christine was handling it diplomatically; if we had a name for the child before she reached school age, I reckoned we'd be doing well.

"Why?"

"Well, because it means 'king', and kings are men."

That was enough of that; Masson slipped down, dragged Christine off the rug and announced, "I want breftiss." We listened to him thump downstairs and run into the kitchen hollering for Uncle Reza.

"That went well," I suggested.

"It did, actually," Christine smiled. I didn't feel it was the proper time to share my doubts; I'd reserve judgment awhile longer.

"And what sort of breftiss does my Angel prefer this morning?" I kissed Christine's forehead and nudged the wrapping aside to get a look at my daughter's amazing, feathery hair. In the light, it almost seemed reddish; how could that be?

She sighed, thinking. "I'm not very hungry, really, but I can see you're determined to force-feed me—"

"Correct."

"Coffee…hot cereal…and Erik?"

"Mm."

"Would you please stir some fig preserves into it?"

"Yecch," I grimaced.

"Don't make that face!"

"This is the face I was born with, Darling; I apologize."


	67. Chapter 67

I floated through the first month of my daughter's life in a sleep-deprived fog, buoyed along by almost hourly shots of espresso-like energy when I discovered something new to panic about. Christine assured me that all the things I was tied in knots about were normal new-baby things, but the little angel seemed rather defective. She couldn't really work out how to burp, so Christine had to thump her. I hated this thumping; it looked as though her little eyes were going to be shot right out of her skull, but if she wasn't thumped and she didn't burp, she got a gassy tummy and cried. On the other hand, she couldn't really work out how to keep the food in her tummy when she got it, so nearly every time she was thumped she spit something up. I fretted that the entire design seemed poor. Christine was mortified when I mentioned my fears. Good Catholic girl that she was, she felt I shouldn't question the Ultimate Designer.

We settled on 'Mireille Ange' for her name—Masson contributed 'miracle' from our conversation, and 'angel' just seemed a perfect accompaniment. 'Mireille' was a bit much for Masson, so immediately she became 'Miri-ange'.

Christine swung on a pendulum of emotions. She was overjoyed about the baby, but frustrated at feeling so tired. The frustration in turn made her weepy, and it was no good for me to assure her that she was working doubly hard caring for an infant and an extremely needy two-and-a-half-year-old. I did everything I could for Christine, but there was little that she would permit me to do for Miri-ange; she didn't want the baby out of her sight, and after all, I couldn't feed her. She seemed to believe that I was completely incompetent to care for the baby in those little things that I could do. Once, I tried to bathe Miri-ange and give Christine an opportunity to doze. In a few moments, she was creeping up behind me, demanding "What are you doing? Not like that, Erik; give her to me!"

I tried not to take it personally. I didn't understand it, but it hurt. I turned to Masson, as he did to me. We went to the park every day, we played music, we went to the opera…we did everything together from morning til night.

Masson did not like Miri-ange. I tried to mention it to Christine, but she would not hear it. She insisted that Masson's feelings were normal and they would change with time. She told me I worried too much. She got irritated and asked me if she didn't have enough to worry about without me piling ridiculous fantasies on top of it.

But to me, there was nothing ridiculous about it. Every day I saw how Masson looked at his little sister, and I recognized what I read in his eyes. He was my son, there was no mistaking it.

"Papa, can we give the baby back to God?"

"No, Masson, she's ours to love and to keep. We'd be sad if Miri-ange went away."

He did not reply, he only climbed into my lap and fished into my waistcoat for a coin.

"It's hard to have to share so much of Mama's time. I miss her; don't you?" I asked him.

"Mm," he shrugged.

"You know, Miri-ange can't do anything for herself, like you and I can. She really does need Mama for everything, but you know Mama loves us just the same."

He nodded.

"As soon as Miri-ange gets a little older, we'll have Mama and Miri-ange both to have fun with."

I told Christine about the conversation, and suggested that she might let me have Miri-ange and have a bit of special time with Masson. She agreed that it sounded like a good idea, and Masson took her to his duck pond. He was much more like his old self when they returned, but the light in his eyes dimmed the moment she reclaimed Mari-ange from my arms.

His big boy potty habits went all to hell, and he sucked his fingers almost constantly. Most nights I actually fell asleep sitting on his big bed with him. After story time, he pleaded with me not to leave him, and we'd cuddle up together. I'd wake up sometime in the middle of the night, tuck him in with a kiss on the forehead and wander in to lie down with Christine and Miri-ange.

Christine and I gave Silke a pair of pearl earrings in gratitude for her help when Miri-ange was born. She protested that it wasn't necessary, but we knew better.

I went down for a glass of wine one evening, and Silke was there, drinking tea. I recalled what Christine had told me, about asking Silke to take Masson if something should happen. I mentioned it to Silke, told her I thought it was a generous, brave thing she'd agreed to.

"No Sir," she demurred. "I love Masson. He's the dearest child!"

"Well, still, it was a tremendous gesture, Silke."

"It's so beautiful to see you with him, Monsieur Rouen. You're—"

Her smile faded and she sprung up, rushing to the kitchen window. She looked out into the darkness, twirling a loose curl distractedly. "I'm just glad Madame Rouen is alright. I would never want anything to happen to her, ever," she insisted.

"Silke, what's wrong?"

"I…almost feel…never mind. Never mind!"

She had nearly escaped the kitchen when she turned and rushed back to me. Her eyes were wide with confusion, but her face held something unmistakably hopeful. She dropped her gaze, conflicted.

I must have second-guessed myself a dozen times in a second. Surely I was imagining things! However, I didn't think I was; not really.

"Silke, you're a lovely woman," I whispered, as kindly as I could. "If my heart were free, it would be more than I could hope for; I hope you believe this."

She looked at me again; I could feel her willing me to kiss her. It was impossibly surreal.

"But neither of us would ever hurt Christine," I smiled. "Good night, Silke." I slipped past her and upstairs to my priceless young family.


	68. Chapter 68

Christine and Masson were napping; Miri-ange and I were wearing circles in the library carpets. She liked to lie with her tummy pressed against my palm, her head resting on my forearm, her arms and legs dangling. She was quiet as long as I kept moving.

Reza watched us with a sadistic little smile on his face. "How many miles do you suppose you've covered?"

"Shut up; I have more important things on my mind."

"Of course you do, Papa."

"Look, what is it with women?" I took up the earlier thread of our conversation. "Do you have any idea what I would have given for one kind word from a woman ten years ago? Nothing dramatic, just a genuine smile. Now I'm getting propositions, for god's sake—here's-my-body-Erik propositions! I had to have another look in the mirror. I'm beginning to think I dreamt the last fifty years; it's been a nightmare and I'm actually Raoul de Chagny."

"I must admit, I never imagined I'd hear you complaining about too much feminine attention, but we've discussed before that you don't see yourself as others do."

"Reza. I see a fatally ugly murderer. Am I wrong? Am I deluded?" I held my arms wide, emphasizing the question; Miri-ange stirred and gurgled. As she wriggled, I cradled her face-up in the crook of my arm.

"Hello, Miri-ange; is Miri-ange awake? Yes, Papa sees you; do you see Papa?" Little babies study human faces with incredible intensity. My voice was not back to pre-idiotic suicide attempt form, but it was better, especially when I spoke softly as I did to Miri-ange.

"Erik, this is exactly what I mean. Look at you: you're an astonishing father. I don't dispute what you did before, but people are so much more than their pasts, or their appearances. Perhaps now that you're no longer hiding underground, people are able to see your considerable good qualities."

I was not really listening. I was kissing a fragrant, downy head; humming, cuddling a tiny princess. I didn't understand what had happened to me, what continued to happen with each passing day. I only knew that I adored my children with an intensity previously reserved for my murderous rages. I wasn't sure how to behave when such a powerful – but good -- emotion overtook me. I whispered to Miri-ange that perhaps I was an infant myself.

"Erik. Did you hear a word I said?"

"Hm? Oh, I'm sorry—"

"Your good qualities," he reminded me.

"Yes. I don't know. I suppose I'm a good enough architect…"

"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about _you_, _Erik_—your personal qualities, you dolt."

"Right. I'm, ah, hostile, impatient, homicidal, jealous, vengeful—"

"Generous, soft-hearted, childlike—"

"You mean child_ish_," I corrected.

"Impossible."

"Yes. I'm impossible; aren't I, Princess? Is Papa impossible? Yes, are you smiling at me? Smiling at impossible Papa? Look at this princess, Uncle Reza; was there ever a more perfect little girl anywhere?"

"God help the young man who comes to court her," my Persian friend chuckled.

"I'm afraid she'll have to remain a spinster. There's no boy good enough, that goes without saying."

I decided that locating a new house was a bad idea. Masson was going through enough upheaval with a new baby sister; he didn't need moving house as well. There was nothing for it; we'd have to build onto what we had. I dragged my drafting table down to the kitchen and shoved the kitchen table aside to take advantage of the light. Darius took every chance to give me the stink eye, ostensibly for gumming up his kitchen, but I knew better. I was permanently on his list since I'd put the fear of cannibalism into Anci.

Reza was mortified at the idea of expanding the house. He opined that we'd never obtain permission to expand in the middle of the city where we were, until I reminded him our dear Raoul would use his influence on our behalf. Thus I set to work.

Poor Silke made herself scarce every time she saw me for a week or so, but I went overboard to treat her as normally as possible. Finally she stopped blushing scarlet and stumbling all over herself. I was grateful that drama was behind us.

Christine ambushed me in bed, to my complete surprise. Aside from her mood swings, she had been sweet and cuddly as a kitten. I attributed this to a sort of honeymoon grace period I was enjoying because I was the fellow responsible for her delightful new baby. So when she snuggled up and whispered how wonderful, helpful and patient I'd been, I never imagined that she had any ulterior motives. Perhaps the Erik who had existed before would have been quicker on the uptake, but the current Erik, father of two was feeling about as amorous as a house plant.

It wasn't a question of wanting or not wanting to. Certainly I loved Christine more than ever, if such a thing was possible. Even if (by some miracle) the opportunity and the energy happened to coincide, horizontal refreshment just didn't occur to me anymore. Perhaps my own overwhelming identification as a father above all else was to blame. I only knew that since Miri-ange was born, Christine was The Mother to me; she was not an object of desire. It's not that there was anything wrong with Christine in my eyes…but I didn't really feel there was anything wrong with me either. I just…felt like a father.

I knew that wouldn't do. I knew she would neither understand nor appreciate the sentiment, no matter how nobly I tried to frame it. She would hear 'You're not girlish and seductive, you're frumpy and maternal'. She would hear 'I'm taking up with Anci.' If I so much as sneezed, she heard 'I'm taking up with Anci.'

Delightful; something new to worry about, just when I was down to an even dozen dramas on my list. My darling wife, promising to make it up to me for all the deprivation I've suffered and all the forbearance I've demonstrated, and once again I was praying for an infantile squeal or bed-wetting incident so I could extract myself politely. I fiddled around as long as possible, but neither of the children came to my rescue, so I begged off with a stellar performance of a leg cramp.

I felt horrible. I hate lying to Christine—especially because fatherhood had done something to my memory. I was forgetful for the first time in my life, and if there's anything an accomplished liar like me knows, it's that you're finished if you can't keep your story straight. I heartily recommend the general policy of telling the Wife the absolute truth out of enlightened self-interest if nothing else. So there I was, feeling like a reprobate, as if faking a leg cramp was the worst crime of my life. Christine's adorable pouty lip conveyed her deep disappointment.

"Erik…who knows when we'll get the chance again?"

Precisely.

"I know, Angel; the joys of parenthood, hm?" I smiled.

"You've been so patient," she worried.

"If you like, I'll wake you early in the morning," I suggested.

"Would you? Perhaps after Miri-ange falls asleep after a feeding?"

"Of course, but you must say if you're feeling tired."

"No," she purred, snuggling again. "I want to get back to normal."

"There's no rush, Christine, it's no contest," I assured her.

"I know it. I just miss you; I just love you."

Right. I dug through my junk box like a madman in search of the unused vial of lust potion Reza had given me. Be careful, for God's sake; it'll kill you, he said. Whatever; I'd be dead anyway if I didn't…stand up for myself.


	69. Chapter 69

Masson was not happy. Each day Christine and Anci spread a quilt on the floor, put Fahim and Miri-ange down, and encouraged Masson to join in. At first, he participated half-heartedly, but as time went by he displayed less patience with the ritual. It would have been difficult anyway; clever child that he was, the babies were boring, even if he wasn't consumed with jealousy.

I tried to bring up jealous and sad feelings in conversation with him. I thought it might help him to know that I understood, but he made it clear that he did not wish to discuss it with me. He turned sullen whenever I mentioned it, responding only with grunts and shrugs. One moment he seemed to be nursing his resentment, polishing and smoothing it as one tumbles a stone; the next he seemed only to want to ignore it, to put his disappointment behind him and go on about the business of being a little boy. I reassured him of our love constantly and neglected the theatre to stay with him. I confess I did not know how to help him.

I wanted to talk to Reza about it, but I felt that Christine and I should arrive at some understanding first. She still refused to hear my concerns. I understood perfectly; she did not want to hear any more about how very much like me Masson was. She was afraid, but the boy was bigger, stronger, and angrier every day. We had whispered arguments late into the night.

"Christine, we must put our heads together, we must do something," I insisted.

"What! What must we do? Lock him away? Lock her away to keep her safe? No. No, he'll outgrow this, Erik. Everyone does."

"If it was me, two years old, would you still say that?"

"Stop it! Stop! He's not you, he's nothing like you! He has a family that loves him; he's not being abused and neglected!"

It always ended the same way. Christine wept and censured me for failing to consider her delicate feelings. I shut my mouth, feeling thwarted and apprehensive.

Raoul and Manon had their child, also a girl, ten days after Miri-ange was born. She was a darling enough little thing, adorable in a common baby way; not an exceptional beauty like my princess. They named her Charlotte, and in due time Manon and Charlotte were joining Christine, Miri-ange, Anci and Fahim for outings and playtime. Those days when Raoul didn't have some Comte-ish business to be about, he spent time with Masson and me. It was a good thing for us to have each other to talk to about the fatherhood business. I had missed his company.

He was horrified when he learned that I'd actually been in the room when Miri-ange popped out. He scrunched up his face in the worst grimace he could manage. He was still fatally cute, the little fop.

"Oh, god, Erik. Didn't you spew?"

"NO, and you wouldn't have done, either. There was no time for spewing. I wish I'd had time for a good spew," I grumbled.

"God. I was downstairs drinking. I mean, I heard footfalls, and Manon hollering once or twice, but I never went up there." His dreamy eyes were huge as saucers.

"There's nothing for it, Raoul. You're just a lucky git. If you fell into a pit, you'd land on a pillow-soft mattress filled with gold, and a bevy of wanton lovelies would soothe your bruised behind. I'd land in glass shards, rusty razors, and bat guano and break every bone in my body twice. Still," I continued, "I must admit that I wouldn't trade it for anything. You really should screw up your courage and try to be there next time—I mean, just to spectate—don't forgo the assistance. You'll never experience anything like it. Women are magical creatures, Raoul."

"I don't know. Even now I feel queasy thinking about it. It seems it would take all the…romance out of life," my sensitive young friend worried. "How do you…I mean…look at her the same, after…"

"Christ, is that all you think about?"

"No," he whined.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I laughed.

"I never know when you're joking with that ugly mug."

"Don't blame my face. You never know when I'm joking because you're a dim-wit."

Hair mussed, eyebrow dimpled, lips pursed, and arms crossed tightly across her chest. Christine's appearance in the kitchen at one a.m. would have been sufficient evidence that I was for it, even without the body cues. I dropped my pencil and tried to smile at the unexpected pleasure.

"You don't want me anymore," she blurted. So much for a preamble. I was on my feet instantly.

"Darling, must we discuss this in the kitchen? Please," I guided her toward the parlor.

She snatched her elbow away.

"Don't! You don't want to touch me."

"Oh, Christine," I sighed. My chest was beginning to ache. She spun away from me as soon as I shut the parlor door.

"Why didn't you wake me? You promised!"

"Angel, if you could've seen how peacefully you were sleeping. Sleep is so precious these days. How can I bring myself to be so selfish?" I thought that sounded good.

"And you don't think you're being selfish now?" she demanded. "Why do you people think you're the only ones who ever get an itch? And the little woman is just supposed to await your pleasure—pigs, all of you!"

Egad; I was dragging down the entire brotherhood with me. I struggled for a response to Christine's venom. She rushed toward me; I cringed, sure I was in for a swat. No; she embraced me.

"Erik," she purred. "I feel so close to you since the baby is born; I want to be your wife."

"Darling, you are my wife."

"You know what I mean; come upstairs. I want to be your little girl." She tugged me toward the door. I waffled. She dropped my hand, disgusted.

"You don't want me!"

"Christine, please, you know that's not so," I groaned.

"What is it then?" Blessedly, she did not wait for an answer. "Erik, I feel fine. You won't hurt me, honestly."

"I don't know," I shrugged. It was a good excuse; I was hopeful she'd let me be. She slipped her arms around me again.

"Oh, Darling, it's alright. Ask Darius; ask Raoul," she encouraged.

"I know this will surprise you, Angel, but men don't discuss personal life matters with their friends as women do. I have absolutely no intention of asking Darius or Raoul anything." Perhaps she wouldn't let me alone after all; I was suffocating.

"Then come upstairs, and let me prove it to you." Christine pulled; I pulled back.

"You know, I'm not a carnival monkey," I snapped. "I don't perform on command!"

Christine stared at me openmouthed. "What's wrong with you?" she whispered, bewildered.

"I don't want to argue, Christine, but you need to give me some room!"

"You've had room for months," she whimpered. She ran upstairs, leaving me feeling like the most insensitive…pig. But what could I do? Truth telling has its limits.

I dragged myself upstairs. I put six drops of Reza's poison into my wine, tossed it back and hoped I hadn't overdrawn my miracle account.

"Go away!" the bump in the bed hissed.

I drew a deep breath and slipped in alongside Christine. I reached out to her.

"Darling…"

She snatched her shoulder out of my grasp. "No!"

"For pity's sake, Christine, make up your mind. I'm here now!"

"No! I don't want to—I won't have you feeling obliged to me, Erik!

"I don't feel obliged to you." Yes, I did. "I feel badly for having hurt your feelings. Christine…"

I hoped she stayed angry, actually. I was not feeling anything like desire from the stinking potion. I felt a host of unpleasant things like tingling, burning, and the need for a mad piss, but nothing that Christine would appreciate. I made a mental note to beat Reza to a bloody stump first thing in the morning.

Christine sat up abruptly and removed her gown; it appeared I was forgiven.

"Touch me," she purred.

Eeeeessshh. My mind was fish in a shallow stream, darting from rock, to branch, to water grass. Anywhere to hide? Anywhere to escape? I started to pray again—no, Erik! You don't pray for help with nasty stuff! Then I remembered I was married; it was completely legal. Somewhere I was certain I'd heard about 'Be fruitful and multiply', so I went with the rub-a-dub prayer again. It worked famously with the baby's birth, perhaps it worked on all baby-related endeavors.

"Erik," she whined.

All of a sudden the lust potion kicked in. It was horrible; it would have been the worst experience of my life, except it saved me the worst humiliation of my life. Christine reached for me and was duly pleased and impressed.

"Oooh, Erik!"

It may have been lovely, but it hurt like the devil. It was this huge, painfully throbbing beast. Still, I wasn't about to let it go to waste. Christine took my moans and grimaces as evidence of my ardor, which was fine. I have no idea how long we were at it. I couldn't finish. Ultimately we had to quit when Miri-ange woke up for a snack, God bless her. Christine seemed to have a wonderful time, but it was clear to me that she felt we had something to prove with this act. I was distressed that we each had something haunting us that we felt unable to tell the other about. Now she felt beautiful and secure in my love again, I hope she'd be able to tell me what it was she feared.

So Reza's potion worked splendidly, in a wholly disagreeable way. I was able to provide my angel with tangible evidence of her undimmed charms and my continued devotion. I had some difficulty getting the tangible evidence to go away when I was done with it. Christine nursed Miri-ange and they both dropped off to sleep, and I was still sitting there with the thing. Finally, I told it I was going to sleep, too, and it had better be gone next time the baby awakened me. Damned Reza was still going to get an earful, but at least Christine was happy. If ever I was conflicted about my mission in life, such was no longer the case. As long as Christine was happy, life was good.


	70. Chapter 70

I had drawn up plans for expanding the first floor, and the floor that Christine and I occupied, and I thought the basement had possibilities I hadn't explored yet. With my penchant for digging underground, I was looking forward to poking around down there. I hoped to I'd get a music room in; somewhere to escape to.

I wandered down with a sketch pad one afternoon.

First thing, it sounded as though we had rats, judging by the scuttling sounds. My eyesight's quite good in the dark, and there was Silke emerging from the shadows, flustered.

"Sorry to have startled you, Silke," I apologized. She dashed upstairs, ignoring me. Typical; I paid it no attention. I sketched and made notes for about twenty minutes. When I was finished, I went to the top of the stairs and fleshed out my sketches while I waited.

"How long do you intend to hide down there, Romeo?" I called at last.

"Wh-what?" came the tremulous reply.

"Raoul, you idiot! I lived in a cellar before your father met your mother; I saw you plain as day."

He came to the bottom of the stairs, his cheeks glowing in the gloom. I stomped down and cracked him across his perfect face. "You can't stand yourself, can you? You must have a romp in the cellar with Silke, of all people! Are you a married man or not?" I demanded.

Raoul shrugged like a boy. "Everyone does it, Erik. It's got nothing to do with being married. Manon doesn't want another child so soon. She'll be grateful that I don't trouble her."

"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said, and that's saying something. Everyone does not do it, thank you very much."

"Everyone does it where I come from; I mean, in my circle," he protested.

"Well, good for you and your circle—go have a blanket drill with one of their servants! This is a goddamn picnic you've set me in the middle of. No doubt you expect me to keep this from Christine!" I growled.

"You won't tell her, Erik!" He looked scared out of his mind. GOOD.

It sounded like a magnificent mess; I wasn't interested in being the instigator of it.

"Well, I won't volunteer any information—but I'm not lying for you, and there'd better be no more fun and games down here!"

"There won't be, I swear it!" I thought he might kiss me.

"You didn't promise her anything, did you?" I demanded.

"No—she just wanted a bit of fun, like me."

"Christ." I felt as though I'd suddenly acquired a prodigal younger brother. I ran my hands through my hair. "You go into Paris right now and buy your darling wife some flowers and a piece of jewelry—a damned expensive one—and go home and work your pretty boy charms on her. You sweep her off her feet as if your life depends on it."

Raoul nodded sheepishly. The more I thought about his behavior, the angrier it made me.

"Unacceptable behavior, Raoul, unacceptable. You get that out of your system before you marry; if you didn't--tough. You don't treat your wife that way; she's just been at death's door to give you a child."

"I wanted a son," he grumbled.

"Then let her get her strength back and make one, man! Don't you dare breathe a word of your disappointment to her. God, you're a miserable git!"

"Christine's better off with you," Raoul confessed.

"I know it; now go home. And do what I told you!"

"I hope God doesn't give us any more babies," Masson confessed.

"It's hard to get used to, isn't it?" I sympathized.

"Mm."

"What could we do to help you and Miri-ange become friends?" I thought perhaps if we put our heads together, we might come up with something. He's a clever boy.

"Make her go away."

"We can't do that, Masson. It would make Mama sad, and me too. We love her and want to keep her. What if she was the big sister and you were the new baby? Would you want us to send you away? Wouldn't you want to find a way for your big sister and you to be friends?"

He nodded.

"She'll be more fun when she gets older. You'll have her and Fahim and Charlotte, and you'll play and have a grand time. I promise. I know how hard it is to believe now, Son. While you're waiting, you must try really hard not to be angry with Miri-ange, because she didn't ask to be born, and she can't help being helpless."

I knew I was talking big ideas to such a little boy, but I hoped he would understand somehow, if only a little. He climbed into my lap and cuddled, and I knew he felt Christine had abandoned him. He wanted his Mama, and all he could get was me.

I made a quick trip back to my theater. I'd neglected it horribly, and of course it showed. It was a tremendous cock-up, but there wasn't a thing I could do about it for the foreseeable future. Masson alone was a fulltime job, leave out helping Christine with Miri-ange.

Raoul and Gaston came over for a smoker with Reza and me. I had two brandys and a cigar. All I could think about was giving Masson his bath, reading a story, tucking him in; holding Miri-ange, thumping her back--after tossing a rag over my shoulder so she wouldn't spit up on my shirt; bringing Christine a cup of tea, tucking her in with a kiss and an 'I love you'. They went off to the coffeehouse; I begged off, told them I hadn't slept for two nights. It could have been true with a new baby and a toddler, but really I just didn't want to go.

I didn't recognize myself anymore. I looked in the mirror and saw the same face I'd seen for over half a century, but who was behind those eyes? No longer the Opera Ghost, who could I be? Christine's husband? Masson and Miri-ange's father? How could I be? That is a job for a normal man, who had loving parents and proper schooling, who learned his catechism before he was fifty, who didn't kill for money or hatred—who'd never taken a life, who didn't envy and rage. I didn't even rage anymore.

Sometimes, if you're staring blankly, your eyes will go slightly out of focus and you'll begin to see double. If you reach out to touch a thing in this state, your hand will close around air, even though you'd swear to the last instant that there is something there to grab onto. So it was as I stared into the mirror, and tried to think: who are you now, Erik? Each time I thought I'd caught something that was truly me, there was nothing there. The man in the mirror had no answers for me.


	71. Chapter 71

"Did you ever have resort to that lust liqueur, Daroga?"

"Hm? Me? No. Why?"

"Well, it's awful, that's why! You get this…this THING…"

"Funny, I thought that was the idea," he cracked.

"Shut up! I mean it's not the usual enjoyable thing. It hurts like a bastard, and it doesn't go away when you're through with it. I don't like it," I grumbled.

"Will you stop complaining? You're not supposed to like it. Was the 'thing' serviceable? Did you accomplish your objective?"

"But what's the point if it's no fun?" I whined.

"Erik. If you recall, I procured that little elixir because you were experiencing a…minor setback. Did you get your trouble sorted out, or not?"

"I suppose," I admitted.

"You're not resorting to that stuff regularly--remember what I told you!" He scolded.

"I told you, it's not the most delightful root I've experienced. No, I'm not abusing it."

"Right, then stop complaining. Ungrateful scoundrel."

Masson was showing his little sister his ducks. He raced ahead of us, laughing. I carried Miri-ange to the pond's edge and sat her on my knee. Masson threw breadcrumbs as Miri-ange wriggled and squealed with excitement. Christine curled up in the pram to doze in the sunshine.

Masson poured some breadcrumbs into his sister's hand.

"Throw it, Miri-ange! Feed the ducks! You have to throw it!" he urged her.

The baby flailed and giggled, her fists clamped tight.

"Papa, she's not doing it."

"I don't think she can open her hand as easily as we can, Masson," I smiled. "It's alright, she's having fun learning about ducks with her big brother."

"How do we get the crumbs then?" he frowned.

"She'll forget about them in a bit," I assured him.

Suddenly, there was a cacophony of shouting as I was thrown forward. I clutched Miri-ange, terrified of dropping her, as unseen hands pummelled my head and shoulders.

"It's him! Get him!"

"BASTARD!"

"MURDERER!"

"PAPA! PAA-PAA!" Masson struggled in the grip of a policeman. Another policeman snatched Miri-ange from me. Still others wrestled me to the ground.

"Masson, it's alright--please, my children—"

"LIAR!" They tore my mask away. I couldn't hide my face as I struggled for a glimpse of the baby.

"Whose child is this? It can't be yours! MONSTER!"

Someone struck my head. My ear buzzed and rang.

"I tell you, I'll go with you; just take them home, please. Please, their mother…they're innocent, please take them home." I gave them Reza's address. Masson bit and kicked as they carted him away. Miri-ange screeched in alarm. She didn't understand, but she smelled the fear and anger.

I watched until they were out of sight. As long as my babies were home safe with Christine, I could turn back to these people who wanted my head. I believe there were six of them, but I couldn't be sure. They dragged me out of the park, punching, kicking and cursing at me.

They hauled me into a room and threw me into a chair. I was left with two of them; a tall one who looked afraid whenever he wasn't hitting me, and a stocky one who simply appeared to hate everyone, me in particular. I tried to take stock of my physical condition. My chest hurt. My head was ringing, and my neck was sticky; I guessed the ear they'd cracked had bled. My ribs ached from a couple of good punches; overall, not too bad. My face was bare. I kept my head down as much as possible out of habit and fear. I was just on the cusp of panic, but as I didn't know what was going on yet, it was a bad time to surrender to my old, untamed fears. I was still slightly hopeful that I'd be able to influence the outcome of whatever was happening, so I fought for calm.

"May I have my mask?"

"SHUT UP!" My tall captor cracked the other ear; blessedly, a glancing blow.

"We ask, you answer, Creature! Understand?"

I nodded.

A rat-faced man entered with two other policemen. His suit was rumpled and he reeked of smoke. The scribbled papers he carried were rumpled, as well. They forced my head back to give him a better view of my face. He only flinched slightly, but I think nothing would have shocked him. He studied me, not unkindly--blankly. I didn't meet his eyes. I don't like to be studied by strangers, obviously, and I was still struggling to remain calm.

"You're the Opera Ghost?" Ratman began.

"I was; no more—"

"You go there still." He insisted.

"Yes; sometimes I do, but I don't live there anymore."

He glanced at his papers.

"What name do you go by? Where do you live now?"

"Erik Rouen. I live at the home of my friend, Re—"

"Where the officers took the children?"

I nodded.

He asked how long I'd lived there, what I'd been doing since I left my lair. He asked me where I got my money. It was a hard job convincing him that yes, they really were my children, and that Christine was my wife.

"Christine Daae? The little songbird you abducted? Impossible!"

The tall one punched me in the stomach and accused me of lying. The chair and I went over. For the few seconds that I lay there, I felt an ocean of grief wash over me. Will I see Christine and the babies again? Christine, I'm sorry. No…no, I had to push those thoughts away or I would never get through.

Tall and Stocky righted me. Ratman began reading names from his paper.

"Did you murder Rene Demilnes?"

I shook my head. "I don't know who he is. No."

"Jean Boulanger? Alain Messner?"

"No."

"Sarah Allee? She was only twelve years old, Ghost," he snapped.

"A child? I wouldn't kill a child!" I was becoming steadily more frantic with each name he recited, beginning to understand what I was doing there.

"Joseph Mandela? Claudine Fletcher?"

"Who are these people? I tell you, I don't know any of them!" I insisted.

They left me then. All my limbs were stiffening, aching. They could have untied me; the door was guarded, after all. I realized that I had come to expect the same compassion, the same civilized treatment they might have given someone they considered a real human being. Could it be that I finally believed I merited such treatment? My god, so much love, I realized; so much love. I wriggled to make my ribs ache; I would not cry in that room. I would not think of the blessed life I now lived; would not mourn my hard-won humanity, even if they ripped it from me.

Two different policemen returned; I don't know how long I'd been sitting there. They brought me to a genuine cell, untied my hands, and threw me in. Back to a cage for Erik. I threw myself against the bars, rattled them, roared, screamed til I went hoarse. My demonstration set the entire jail into an uproar. The guards tried to threaten me into behaving myself, but I was beyond their reach. I reckon it looked like the second storming of the Bastille to them, with all the inmates in revolt, so they entered my cell and beat me unconscious.


	72. Chapter 72

I couldn't hear much through my bloody ear, but it sounded like Christine's voice. Still, I had to be dreaming, because of the string of abuse that cut through the air. Bastard this, burn in hell that; not my Christine.

"Here--my marriage certificate, signed by the bishop! What have you to say now, you pig!"

Pig? I scrambled to my feet, struggling to see down the corridor.

"Christine?"

"ERIK!" I heard scuffling. "Let me past," she hissed.

I brushed my cheek against the bars, telegraphing a caress as I surrendered to tears.

"You shouldn't be here, Angel," I called.

Several voices reached me through the commotion of inmates. Christine, still calling perdition down on the police. Raoul, taking his authority for granted, arguing with Ratman, it sounded like. Reza shouted to me in Persian, begging me to stay calm and keep my mouth shut. The children are fine, safe at home with Manon and Silke, he added.

I heard footsteps and a moment later Christine appeared. She was a vision, her hair barely contained, wearing a simple rose-colored day dress. The drunkards and thieves hooted as she passed; my rage flared. I roared and rattled the cage. Reza called out to me again to settle myself.

Then she was with me, her hands covering mine, her lips straining toward my forehead.

"God, look at you—"

"Darling, where are your gloves?" I worried.

"MONSTERS!" she shrieked! "Is this how France treats an innocent man?"

Raoul nodded a solemn greeting, squeezed Christine's shoulders. "Christine…"

"Look at him, Raoul!" she spat, fighting angry tears.

"Who is this delectable wildcat you've brought me, gentlemen?"

"It's not funny, Erik," Christine scolded, brushing her cheek against my hand. My arms ached for her.

"I know it isn't, Angel. You're quite the tigress, I won't argue with you."

"Can't you admit her?" Raoul called back to the guards. "She's his wife, for God's sake!"

"He is too dangerous, Monsieur le Comte."

Christine unleashed an impressive litany of blasphemy in reply.

"Darling, you swear like a professional," I whispered.

Reza moved closer. "Erik, you don't know who you can trust here," trying to explain why he'd reverted to Persian.

"They read off this list of names to me—"

Reza translated to Raoul. It was hard to concentrate with Christine pulling me as close as the bars permitted, fussing at my condition.

Raoul nodded. "They've got a list of all the people who've gone missing, any unsolved murders for the last twenty years."

The weight of my predicament drove me to my knees. Christine followed me to the floor, crushing me painfully against the bars. "No, no, no," she whispered. "Don't give in to this, Erik."

"Christine," I puffed. I wanted so desperately to settle. I needed to settle for her, but I was making a mess of it.

"Don't give in to this!" she screamed, hysterical. Raoul drew her away and did what he could for her.

"Raoul is working to find out who is behind this," Reza murmured. "Erik, there must be someone. Meanwhile, you've got to—"

"Don't tell me to be patient, Reza, you know I can't stay here!" With Christine distracted, I was free to tremble and fall apart momentarily. "I can't even breathe properly—"

"Erik, I know," he soothed. "Look, Raoul is making inquiries, but until we learn who's behind this, you must hang on."

"Take care of her," I pleaded. "Whatever happens!"

"You know I will. Don't worry, we're all looking after one another. Listen, have a look for a tubby officer with a wrapping on his hand. The bear bit the devil out of him." Reza fell to uncontrollable laughter. "'Leave my sister!' He was fighting like a bull, you'd've been proud."

I laughed, too. It was a cleansing moment, for as long as it lasted.

"I want my babies, Reza," I sobbed.

"Hush, now, your wife's coming." He moved aside to let Christine have me back.

"Raoul's doing everything he can, my love," she chattered brightly. "We'll bring you home the moment we can. I don't understand why we can't bring you home now."

Her façade was crumbling. "I don't understand…"

"Don't cry, woman. I can bear anything as long as I know you're holding up." I kissed her hands, front and back. "Mmm, you smell delicious. Wait til I get home." I held her as close as possible, drawing nourishment from her proximity.

"Don't say anything to them, Erik," Raoul urged. "What have you told them?"

"They read a list of names, asked me if I'd killed them. I said no, I didn't know any of them. They wanted to know here I lived, what I did for money. Did someone tell them I killed all those people, then?"

"No," Raoul scoffed. "They're just looking for someone to hang it all on. Someone put them onto the infamous Phantom, and there you have it. We need to find out who put them onto you, and why."

"I can't stay here, Beauty," my voice cracked.

"They're just bureaucrats, Erik, looking for an easy road to a promotion and their name in the papers. Don't harm anyone; don't harm yourself. I'm working as diligently as I can; please give me time."

I nodded.

"We'll come see you tomorrow."

"I'll bring you supper," Christine said.

"No, the babies need you, Angel. I'm alright."

"You're not alright!" She broke down again. "You're locked up and hurt!"

"And everything is strange at home. I'm not there, and you're upset. Masson doesn't understand. He's frightened. The little princess doesn't know why, but she can smell it on Mama that something is wrong. Please, come tomorrow if you can. Take care of my babies tonight."

"Come along, Christine," Reza drew her away. I kept her fingertips as long as I could. She tore my soul away when we lost contact. I heard her at the end of the corridor, my lioness.

"He's not a young man, you bastards! There'd better not be another freckle on him tomorrow!"


	73. Chapter 73

Ratman brought my managers through. Amid the mumbling I gathered Ratman was asking them to confirm that they'd seen me, that I really was their ghost. I didn't see why they'd want to harm me; frankly, I'd done nothing but help them. They certainly couldn't run the theater themselves.

When Raoul and Reza came, I told them the managers had come. Raoul didn't stay; he ran off to worry them. I worried aloud to Reza how I'd repay all the kindness people have shown me. He waved it off. He said Raoul had even called on the Bishop's secretary about putting in a word.

"Erik, when this is behind you, you might think about leaving Paris—France, even."

"Leave France?" I gasped.

"Erik. You're not the ghost anymore. The opera doesn't need you, and you won't lose your muse if you let that theater go. You have your Christine; she is the reason you were there, don't you remember? It's finished now."

I shook my head vehemently.

"I know this is frightening to hear now, my friend." He squeezed my hand to the point of pain. "Just let it dance in your mind."

"Has Christine mentioned wanting to leave?"

"No, we haven't discussed it at all."

"You and Raoul, then?"

"No. It seems to me that you shouldn't feel hunted forever, Erik. Doesn't your family deserve a fresh start? You can go somewhere and be whoever you want to be, be like anyone else."

"Oh? My face is going to be magically transformed? I cross the Alps into Switzerland and I'm a beauty like Raoul?"

"Erik, stop with your damned face, will you? Please, remember when you first came to Paris? Remember how it felt to escape Persia?"

"Jesus Christ, Daroga, I was running for my life!"

"Isn't it your family's life now?" he murmured. As gently as he'd said it, it still took my breath away.

"Where would we go? What would--?

"You needn't decide all that now. Just let it dance in your mind."

-0-0-0-0-

A priest came to see me. He didn't look old enough to understand what celibacy was, much less agree to it. I urged him to go; I was only Catholic enough to marry Christine, and I didn't feel up to forging friendship with Jesus at the moment. He looked so wounded at my rejection. Just like my son, I thought. Every 'No!' is personal to a child. I relented and gave him a short version of my story. I told him where I'd been, told him about Christine, and the children, and the promise of life I was only beginning to glimpse. Could he imagine being my age before ever wanting to wake up to another day? I was daring God to offer me something other than platitudes, crying out for something to cling to, but His fresh-faced ambassador had nothing for me. He gave me a copy of the New Testament and escaped. I hope I didn't shake his faith; I'd been hoping that he'd infect me with his.

-0-0-0-0-

Raoul nudged me awake. Nothing against him, but not what one dreams of seeing first thing.

"Listen, your instincts are amazing. It seems it's the managers. That and a couple of minor bureaucrats in the city administration, just as I said, who want to make careers on you. Word's been about of sightings of a man answering your description; now that you're not in the lair anymore, it's unavoidable."

I couldn't understand it about the managers. "Raoul, I'm fucking filthy, I'm losing my smidgen of sanity, and I refuse to eat the crap they claim is food; you'll forgive me if I don't follow your puppy dog logic. Why would the managers want me gone? What the hell would they do without me--besides cock it up completely?"

"They don't want to pay you, Erik; they want you gone. It's just as simple as that."

"They'd send me to my death over money?" Incredible.

He nodded. "Neither Gaston nor I've found anything else."

"Well, bugger it, then. I'll get a proper job if they let me go, it's nothing to me."

"Right, what should I do? Should I tell them you'll quit the opera house if they let you go? I've no idea what they'll want for guarantees, and—"

I had to pace on that for awhile. "Talk to Gaston and Reza. I could deal with the managers, if they'd meet me. But I don't know how to persuade the cops to let me be."

"Reza says you should leave the city," he murmured.

"I know. Easy to say," I admitted.

"You could stay with us at Chagny—I mean, until you had time to take a proper decision and get things in order."

"You're a good fop."

Raoul nodded again. "Be back later."

"Raoul, I'm sorry I was—"

"Leave it. Where will it end if you and I start apologizing to each other?" he smiled.

-0-0-0-0-

I didn't tell Christine about the conversation with Raoul when she came. I didn't want to create any hope in her until I really had something to say. She was much subdued compared to the last time, almost shy around the police. Naturally when they left us, I questioned her about the change. Turned out it was Catholic drama I was witnessing. She'd been to confession that morning, and it was the worst one in a long time. Her exact words: "I think I've got more penance over all the swearing and evil thoughts than I did over the adultery."

Well, it was the only laugh I'd had since being arrested, besides Masson biting the policeman. When she took exception, I cautioned my little firecracker against striking her husband, as surely there'd be further penance associated with that.

"You're right. I'd better kiss you instead, then."

"Mm. Come here, my incorrigible sinner."

"Don't say that, Darling. No more sinning for me. I've had quite enough," she admitted, turning pensive.

"Alright, I'll permit this penitential mood, but only until I return, Angel. I shall expect a good fortnight of sin when I get home," I smiled, trying to tease her out of her mood.

She whispered. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's no sin now we're married."

"We'll see about that. I'm sure we'll be able to think of a sin between us."

She turned her rage on me then, demanding what I'd eaten, how I was sleeping. I wasn't looking after myself, wasn't even trying to return to her safe and healthy, she accused; the boy was pissing his bed, the baby was fussy and had a nasty rash on her bum. I bore her abuse happily, my poor angel. It was my fault; and after all, she was merely trying to tell me that she needed me home, as if I didn't know it.

When she finished berating me, we sang. It was a tremendous help to us both. She'd bought me several books, and a picture Masson had made of the ducks, so I wouldn't miss them. Gaston was making inquiries, she said. It was encouraging, as he knew nearly everyone in Paris. Raoul was worrying all his noble connections, she assured me.

The officers reappeared and made Christine leave. She made me promise to eat, said she'd send a treat later in the day with Reza—that was fine, I had no appetite. All I really wanted was the ribbon from her hair. I told her not to worry, swore I was holding up well. What good would it do to tell her that I felt cracks forming along the edge of my sanity?

-0-0-0-0-

The nighttime duty officers were bored, and I looked like easy amusement.

"I saw your bitch, Monster."

Recalling the old saw about having a battle of wits with an unarmed man, I crawled into a space behind the bed to ignore him.

"Did you hear me? Monster! I saw your bitch!" He began chucking coins at me. "How long do you think that saucy cunt will wait for a creature like you? How old are you anyway? Are you deaf? Hey!"

His friend chimed in. "Answer the officer, Beast!"

Their aim with the coins was improving. I was tired and sore, and I wanted to tell them to just kick me around and have done with it. It's not that the anticipation is worse than the event; no, I was confident these two would give a good accounting of themselves. I just wanted to sleep if I could, and there would be none of that til I'd had my bedtime story.

My mind returned effortlessly to that place where regular beatings are expected. Once, when I was about twelve, I got a whipping because I'd made a dog bark. The boy and his thug friends said I'd scared his dog. Now, the way this works is, if you don't make the dog bark, you still get a whipping for simply being there. I've been 'there' many times; I almost felt I could bear it, going back to that life. I'd certainly had more experience of it than this new life where I had a proper bed, a woman to love, two perfect children. Friends. A reason to live in the light, try to be a man, and not hurt people.

I wanted to ask God about this. I wanted to know why I should be given a taste of something I couldn't finish. I wanted to know why I was being sent back into the sewers. But mainly, I wanted to know why Christine and the babies were being made to suffer.

They all worked together; the coins and insults, my grief and terror, the memories. I gave in to the despair, though Christine had pleaded that I not allow it to consume me. I gave them the show they wanted. I threw myself against the bars. I strained to reach them from my cage. I wanted their throats in my hands; I told them so. I tried to dash my brains out; I should have been more careful; I know perfectly well how blood stings the eyes. They burst in, confident I'd do myself if they didn't stop me, and trussed me up like a boar fresh from the hunt. I could not be permitted to cheat the government of France of its pleasure by killing myself prematurely.

My mind couldn't stay with the body bound and caged there. It has always longed to escape the flawed carcass it's chained to; I don't blame it wanting to fly away.


	74. Chapter 74

I think I came awake several times, but it felt more like a flying dream. I didn't see anything, just heard voices. And I felt Christine holding my hand.

When I opened my eyes, Masson was sprawled on my torso, not entirely comfortably. The child is a giant; constantly wriggling, stabbing knees and elbows. Beside us, Miri-ange was passed out openmouthed, drooling; beautiful. My own bed, my own room; my own precious babies about me. I gasped as my eyes threatened to overflow.

"Are you going to sleep all day?" Masson demanded, jiggling his foot to ensure I could not sleep all day.

"And what if I do sleep all day?"

"Mama will get a switch to your bottom!" He shrieked with delight at saying 'bottom'.

"Will she?" I smiled. Christ, my head was thumping. It hurt to think.

"Mm. She says she'll switch me if I be lazy and don't pick up my room." He grinned broadly.

"I'd better get up then. I certainly don't want Mama taking a switch to me!" We both had a laugh at that—for quite different reasons. He scrambled off the bed, delivering a swift kick to my ribs—brilliant.

"MAMA! MAA-MAA! PAPA'S AWAKE!" The human whirlwind clomped down the stairs. Miri-ange never stirred. I plucked her up and transferred her to my chest. I wanted to smell her luscious hair. All that jiggling, and she never stirred. I wish I could sleep like that.

Christine rushed in. Her eyes flew wide when she found me semi-upright. She didn't say a word, simply rushed over and kissed me silly.

"How do you feel, my Angel?" she breathed.

"After that? Magnificent. Here, feel for yourself."

"Stop, you evil man, and with your daughter right here!"

"You're smiling…" I crooned.

"Stop!" she giggled. "I'll take care of you later, if you…"

"What? If I feel up to it?" It hurt to laugh.

"That is what I was thinking," she admitted primly. "I just couldn't actually bring myself to say it."

"Come here; we can play a little til she wakes up, hm?"

"No, we cannot—there's no time. How do you feel, seriously?"

I released an appraising sigh. "Incredible headache; know anything good for a headache?"

"Will you quit? My goodness, what's become of you?"

"Don't know. Christine, how long have I been here?"

"Um, fourteen hours or so." She recalculated. "Sixteen, I guess."

"I was in jail. Right?"

She nodded; sudden recognition dawned in her eyes. "You don't remember coming home? Anything?"

"I don't think so," I admitted warily. "Tell me."

Christine wiggled self-consciously. "I guess the confinement was too much for you. You went…a bit wild. The night guards said you tried to use your head for a battering ram. You really wanted to get out," she tried to make light of it, but her eyes were swimming. "They sent for us, I think it was around nine, because the babies were asleep. When we arrived, you were a bloody mess.; they hadn't even bothered to clean your face. You were all tied up like an animal, it was inhuman! Not a single concern for your comfort. They did call a doctor—at least that was not too much trouble for them!" She hid her face in her hands, composing herself. Finally, she smiled weakly. "I screamed at them terribly, Erik. I'm ashamed what I'll have to tell the priest this week. But they deserved it—and worse!" I brushed a stray curl from her face. "Raoul and the doctor managed to convince them you couldn't be kept there any longer, or you'd—"

"—go completely off my nut." Christine is very sensitive about the whole insanity thing, refuses to hear any of those words: crazy, madman, insane; wonder why. I squeezed her hand and she fell beside me. "My brave girl," I sighed, cuddling her as much as I could. She just needed a really good crying jag, and later, a really good screw.

In a few minutes, she sat up, wiping her eyes. "Let me get Reza; we need to talk."

Reza spoke Persian and asked ridiculous questions to see if I was amnesiac or a crackpot as a result of my misguided escape attempt. Once he was satisfied that I was as sane as I'd ever been, he was overcome to see me home safe.

"Will you stop, you dotty old man? Listen, I need to know, what about my arrest? What about the charges?" I murmured.

"Gaston learned of several men in the office of police that were badly embarrassed when they did not capture you after the fiasco at the opera house. Raoul is convinced that Richard and Montcharmin are helping them—because they don't want to pay your salary anymore, you see."

Suddenly my head was too heavy to hold up. As it dropped into my hands, Reza rushed to my side. "What is it? Are you ill?"

"No. I'm fine; I just want to know what's to become of me and my family!"

"Raoul confronted the opera management yesterday. He told them that he would withdraw all his support if they did not immediately stop assisting the police in all matters concerning the Opera Ghost. In fact, he indicated that they would be wise to notify the police that they wished the case closed. He is trying to deal with the police now. Likely it will be more difficult than threatening the managers into submission."

Reza patted my hand tenderly. "Which is why, my friend, we'd like you to consider leaving Paris for your safety, and that of your family."

"I know it, Reza. I know we must go," I sighed.

My old friend's eyes were dull with sadness. "Where would you like to go?"

"One place is the same as another, so long as I have my family. What about you, any preference?"

"Me?"

"Come along, Daroga. You know Christine will never part with you. Where shall we all go together?"

"Switzerland? England? America?"

I buried my face in my hands again. I couldn't bear to think about it.


	75. Chapter 75

There was nothing for it. I told Christine directly that we looked like leaving Paris, and why. She went mad at the managers—no surprise there—swore she'd get Raoul to withdraw his patronage. She acted as if she had two husbands sometimes. Neither of us had strong feelings for where we'd want to go if we left Paris. I suggested she confer with Reza, since we were agreed we had to drag him along wherever we went.

She didn't like the idea of me getting a proper job, but while I hadn't had much in the way of expenses for awhile, I still didn't see my savings keeping the four of us going forever.

So it was Raoul, Christine and me, sat down with my managers to make a deal. I tried to get Christine to remain behind, but that was a lost cause before it even began. Messrs Richard and Montcharmin struggled to make small talk with 'Mademoiselle Daae', who wasted no time in clearing up their misconceptions. Raoul worked overly hard, I think, to be a friend to all parties. I made a mental note to take him to task over it later.

They came straight to the point. They wanted me out of their cellar, out of their theater. They wanted no more notes, ungrateful bastards; and would be paying no more salary. They knew I'd killed in the theater, and it stood to reason that my reign of terror had not been confined to the opera house, as stealthy as I could be.

I told them, bluntly, to cram their suggestion that I'd killed everyone who'd gone missing in Paris for twenty years. Their ham-handed tactics insulted my intelligence and—well, Raoul talked me off the ledge. Right. I agreed I'd leave the opera and trouble them no further. I only wanted time to go below and clear out some things.

What guarantee was I offering that I'd trouble them no more, they wanted to know. Seemed to me it was no trouble to pick me up again if I reneged; after all, I was a damned pathetic Opera Ghost with two babies in tow. I floated the idea of leaving Paris—they liked that very much.

It appeared we had an arrangement. They said they'd see to having the investigation terminated and I'd be free to go. The offered me two weeks to clear out my lair, such as it was. Preliminaries accounted for, we stood.

Christine was seething; I had to get her away from them as quickly as possible. She viewed their treatment of me as a vile betrayal.

"His genius is wasted on you! Ingrates!" she hissed as I bustled her out of the room

Raoul caught up to us. "What are you thinking?" he asked.

Christine wheeled on him. "What am I thinking? What are they thinking? Did you tell them?" she demanded.

'Tell them what?"

"That they can go to the devil! That they wouldn't have a theater without him! Bastards!" Raoul and I each grabbed an arm and dragged her into the street; she was incoherent.

"Darling…language…" I reminded her.

"Oh, piss on you too! Let me go, both of you!" She darted ahead of us.

Raoul was nonplussed. "What's wrong with her?"

"She's had a difficult few days, and she's only now realizing she's got to leave everything behind. She needs a moment; that's all." We followed along.

"How do you know that?" he asked, amazed.

"Because I love her and I've taken the time to know her," I replied pointedly. "Listen, I'd like to let this lay for the evening. I just want to see my children and settle Christine, if it's possible. Reza and I can make plans tomorrow."

"Of course, I'll hold them off," he nodded. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing for it," We turned the final corner toward home. "We've got to go."

Perhaps this sounds strange coming from a mason, but it was incidental that the jumble of bricks and mortar before us kept sun and rain off my head. My babies were born there; hell, my babies were made there. There, Christine found me, scolded me, loved me, swatted me, forgave me, seduced me…leaving the theater behind was nothing, but walking away from 118 Rue de Capucines…

Christine awaited me on the steps.

"Such a charming little house," I smiled weakly. We held each other upright and wept.

Gaston and Reza were waiting for us in the parlor. "You want to talk in the morning," Reza confirmed.

I nodded. "Now, I have to make music with my boy."

Raoul rose. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Don't…make any hasty decisions, Erik. You can stay with us—or Christine and the children can stay—"

"No!" Christine interjected.

"--if you and Reza want to go on ahead to search for a place."

I embraced and kissed him. "Thank you…so much," I smiled. He nodded uncomfortably, embraced Christine and left us.

Suddenly I felt exhausted. Falling onto the sofa, I smiled as Gaston pressed a cognac on me.

"PAA-PAA!" My bear crashed in, knocking the wind out of me. My huge boy; he smelled so good. "Papa, I bit those nasty coppers," he whispered.

"I know!" I laughed. "I love you, my big man. Thank you for taking care of Mama and Miri-ange. We must look after our girls, you and I, hm?"

He nodded solemly. Don't let him grow up so fast, God.

-0-0-0-0-

How many more concerts will we hold here? Masson on the floor, in my waistcoat and shoes, sawing away at the violin—charming the most incredible sounds from it. My wiggly baby on my knee, giggling and waving her fists. She'll be banging the keyboard any day.

How many more dawns will peer into this window and find Christine and me curled up like puppies?


	76. Chapter 76

"Paa-paa." Masson peeled my eyelids open.

"Paa-paa." He felt like a cement sack thumping on my chest.

"Papa is a bony, spindly old man, Son. Please don't bounce on me like that."

"Why?"

"Because you may break me."

"Papa, get up."

"What time is it?" We only passed out around five.

"Why you can't look at the clock?"

"Because I can't move."

"Why?"

"When you're older you'll understand."

"Old people have aches and pains," he announced.

"That is absolutely correct."

Masson gave up on me for the moment. He'd be back, but perhaps Mama was a better candidate for abuse this morning. Not likely.

"Maa-maa."

"Get Papa." My loving wife.

"Papa says he can't move."

"Mama can't move either, Darling. Maybe Mademoiselle Silke will get your breakfast."

Masson grunted disapproval at his lazy parents and thumped away with Christine. Masson was dragging something along behind him; it made a solid clunk-clunk as it followed them downstairs. God only knew what he'd found. He had accumulated a pirate's treasure of junk pilfered from everyone in the house.

"Erik."

"Yes, my Aphrodite; the depleted husk of your late husband is beside you."

"Will you please be my angel and get me some coffee?" she purred.

"Nothing would please me more, Christine, but I really can't move."

"Liar," she groused. "If I said I wanted to go again, you'd be here in a heartbeat."

"You want to go again?"

"Do you?"

"Do you?"

"Mm-hm."

"Outstanding."

"See? That was even quicker than a heartbeat." She was smiling.

"You didn't make me drag myself over on false pretenses, did you?"

"Oh no, I couldn't let this beast go to waste. But, um, Erik?"

"What? Coffee now?" I couldn't believe it.

"No; you'd better lock the door."

-0-0-0-0-

When I finally dragged my carcass downstairs, Darius said he'd bring coffee to the parlor. The cabal was already in session; I was fashionably late. Raoul sat grinning at me. Disagreeable before coffee.

"What is that idiot grin about? Haven't you got a family to attend to?"

"Thanks for joining us today, Lord Shagwell."

"You prat; don't provoke a man before his coffee."

We joined the debate over the best place to go. Switzerland's obsessive neutrality had its appeal, as did England's historic animosity toward France, should French authorities locate me and demand extradition. America was a blank slate; there was no fresher start possible anywhere. Me among red Indians and outlaws; what a ghastly idea. Masson would adore it.

Frankly, imy managers' behavior remained a puzzlement to me. For pity's sake, one insignificant madman in a damp cellar. It seemed absurd that they'd come after me. Perhaps in my heyday I would have been a worthy trophy, but now, defanged as I was? Christine was more of a hellion than I, and a much more fetching trophy.

"Are you sure I couldn't just duck out of Paris and lay low awhile?"

"You won't lay low," Gaston insisted. "You must be free to play with your children. You can't hide in a cave anymore."

I couldn't disagree with that.

"I still think we could hide you at Chagny," Roul suggested.

"Hide? Erik?" Reza was incredulous.

"It's alright, Raoul. You're a moron, but it's part of your unique charm. Gentlemen, if only women fucked brains," I sighed.

"Look; now you've wounded him."

"Oh, I don't know; he looks adorable when he pouts."

"I'm serious. I've given it considerable thought!" Raoul insisted. He was genuinely offended. "No one comes on the property without permission, and if you had a good, thin leather mask which matched your skin; they couldn't get terribly close, they'd have to use a telescope."

"HA-HAAAH!" The door crashed open. Had I more wits about me, I might have pissed myself. We gazed in horror at the apparition: Masson in full Phantom rig. Shoes, waistcoat, cape; mask on his head like a party hat and gloves (where the devil did he find them?) His trusty accomplice was draped in his arms—an added personal touch. He was also dragging my lasso along behind him—where the devil did he find that?

"He's here!" I squealed. "The Phantom of the Opera!" Much muttering ensued.

Masson beamed. His menacing scowl needed work.

"There is no Phantom of the Opera!" Raoul scoffed.

"Raoul, I've seen him!" I pointed at the giggling fiend.

Raoul leapt up and dashed from the room in wide-eyed terror. Masson released Christine and drew his sword before clomping after him. Good; let the young Comte race around like a fool today.

"Erik, how in heaven's name did the boy come by your lasso?" Reza demanded.

"Don't look at me! What do you take me for?"

"Well, alright then," he grumbled, relieved.

"I'd never teach him to use a lasso before he was, say, twelve."

Gaston howled; Reza mumbled something about incorrigible and delinquent. Reckon he meant me.

-0-0-0-0-

The cabal was in session all afternoon and into the evening. We debated the relocation problem half-heartedly, welcoming any distraction with relief. We didn't want to go; they hated to see us go. I knew I had to go. Gaston was perfectly right. I couldn't hide. It might have been alright for Christine and me, but we have to think of the babies.

It sounds trite, but babies really do change everything. My god, I didn't even care about my own ugly hide anymore. Imagine the scene in the park without my children there: the police would have beaten me to death before they'd've taken me. Nothing but my cherubs could have brought me to a public park in broad daylight to begin with.

When I think of my mother now, I feel a new confusion. It's true they are flawless, but would I have turned my children away if they were not? I know I wouldn't. Their pull on me is visceral. I find my previous explanation for my mother's rejection no longer satisfies. I have a new idea: perhaps Mother was mad too. What if madness prevented her from heeding the ageless impulse to nurture her offspring, no matter how flawed? I don't know what to do with these ideas. I lay them aside whenever they surface.

In much the same way, my partners in crime and I laid the relocation debate aside for more attractive diversions. We got oiled up and went on a raid. Christine caught us just before we escaped. Incredibly, she went for Raoul. She promised him she'd have his head if the police nabbed me again. Two husbands, as I said.


	77. Chapter 77

Neither Christine nor I could really face leaving France completely. We decided to try for half-measures; safe or sorry? Who knew? We went to Perros-Guirec. Between Reza and me, it was no trouble to buy a sprawling place right on the shore. When Christine learned she had her own beach, she danced and giggled like a little girl. All the worry that had darkened her features since I'd been carted off to jail washed away. I thought that even if we had to leave ultimately, it would be an idyllic interlude.

Masson seemed to be fine with the idea of moving. He treated it as a big adventure. His main concern was that everyone in the household was coming—most of all, Christine the cat. When he learned we would be living by the sea, he asked if I thought there would be pirates. Right, Mama would love that—though I suspected she could well take care of any buccaneer who tried to carry her off. I took him and Miri-ange to bid the ducks farewell, and police be damned. He told them he was going to the seashore and they could come visit, there was plenty of water.

We held off the inevitable trauma of saying goodbye to the Chagnys by carting them along. Ostensibly they were helping with the move and were due for a holiday at the shore anyway, but goodbye was an elephant in the middle of the room.

The week before we left Paris, we began pounding it into Masson's head that he never, ever, ever went near the shore alone. Nevertheless, within a day, he was trying to drag my coffin down to the beach in order to set sail. I caught him myself and polished his behind royally. He ran off, swearing "I'll get you!" The boy had no idea I was his closest ally. Christine might have beaten him to death if she'd caught him. As it was, when I told her about it, she had apoplexy. I had to restrain her from dragging him from his bed and whipping him again. Predictably, the incident evolved into the standard Masson argument, Christine insisting the boy was completely uncontrollable and berating me for 'not doing anything'. She never had any suggestions about what I was supposed to do.

He's just a boy. It was a typical boy thing to do. I was more concerned with him vowing revenge. I didn't mention that to Christine; I should have done, but at the time, I was already in it up to my neck. I took the cowardly husband's way out and kept my trap shut, agreeing whenever possible.

The next morning, Masson snuck into our room and bit me while I slept—right in the fleshy—well, relatively so—part of my hand. It was a novel way to come awake. Erik screams, the culprit flees, Christine comes flying out of the bed and rushes for the baby, who's terrified and shrieking. I had to restrain my darling until I could get my hand wrapped up; it bled like a bastard. She was off to kill the boy.

I think Masson genuinely believed that his retribution was so heinous that I'd never dare to spank him again. Sadly for him, the world can't work like that. He got a whipping and was restricted to the house for a week; no beach at all.

My boy avoided me all day and glared at me when he couldn't avoid me. The next day when I went downstairs, the lining of my coffin was shredded. When we confronted him, Masson refused to answer us, even after being swatted again.

Christine was nagging me mercilessly to 'do something', as usual. I suggested the move might be disturbing him more than even he knew. She didn't care to know anything, she wanted results. The woman thought I had a magic wand; wave it and everything's fixed, Erik. Well, I do have one, but it only works in bed.

Right, Masson and I needed to talk. I visited him in his new hiding place; his first real lair. I knew right away where it would be, I'd spotted it the first time I saw the house. The first floor of the house was raised and there was a porch. You could get into the area beneath the porch and watch people pass through the latticework. You had to enter from the cellar, which I'd appropriated for my music room. I knelt and called for him.

"May I come in, Monsieur le Fantome? I have biscuits in my pocket."

"Enter if you dare." Impressive.

He had it set up nicely. He was using a crate for a wardrobe; half my clothes were in it. He'd pilfered several blankets and a posh cushion for Christine. He'd stolen a handful of my pastels and was drawing pictures of pirates for the walls.

I handed him a biscuit.

"Son, you know when the police took you and Miri-ange home?"

"Mm."

"Did Mama tell you they took me to the jail?"

"Mm."

"Son, we can't hurt people when they make us angry. It makes people sad; that's the main reason. Another reason is that we go to jail for hurting people. When we go to jail, we can't see our family or friends, we can't go anywhere—"

"Did you hurt somebody?"

I drew a deep breath. Not yet three; he doesn't need the story of my life.

"A long time ago I used to hurt people, Masson. The police wanted to punish me for the things I did then. I don't hurt people anymore, because it's wrong, and it makes them sad, and because I want to stay with you and your mother and sister. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"It's scary for Mama when she sees you get so angry, because she doesn't want you to grow up hurting people. You have to learn ways to be angry without hurting people. Can you think of any ways to be angry without hurting people, Son?"

"Run really fast."

"That's an idea I've never thought of; it sounds good. What else?"

"Play angry music."

"I play angry music when I'm angry. It helps me; it might help you too. You can try it and see. What else?"

He thought awhile and finally shrugged.

"Would you like to know some other things people do?"

"Mm."

"Some people talk to someone special. Mama and I talk to each other when we feel angry, and I talk to Uncle Reza. You could talk to Mama or me."

"Or Christine."

"You could tell Christine about it, yes."

"Papa, guess what? I cut your box up."

"I know, Masson."


	78. Chapter 78

To describe Perros as a sleepy seaside town is to make it more exciting than it is. There was nothing—I mean _nothing_—for Raoul and me to do to get into trouble except get drunk and have our wives slap our faces when we tried to be suave. We tried to persuade Reza to open a Persian coffeehouse—as the only entertainment in town, it would make him a billionaire in short order. He told us he wasn't importing women for the likes of us, and besides, he was happy playing Grandpapa. He sat on the beach all day watching the babies play and toddled off to bed early. I gave him the devil about turning into a boring old man.

Masson settled down. The biggest danger was in leaving him to his own devices for any amount of time. I happened to be reading _L'Epoque_ one afternoon and I noticed the boy making repeated trips through the room, each time carrying a book. By about the sixth trip, I decided there was a problem. To make a long story short, he was building a structure with rock and books whereby he would be able to jump to the first branch of a fairly large tree in the back garden. Once again, typical boy stuff, but Christine would have found no humor in it. Problem was, he was too smart for his own good; it's fine to try to climb trees when you're six or eight, but Masson was rushing things.

The other thing Masson enjoyed was picking up women on the beach—I should say, having women pick him up. If he saw someone he fancied, he'd stroll over with Christine and strike up a conversation, bold as Jove. First the innocent victim would pat the kitty, next minute she'd scoop up the adorable, clever boy. If I lost sight of him, he was easily located by searching for the cluster of young lovelies; he was invariably in the middle of it, holding court. Imagine that scene: "_You're _Masson's _father_?" I pried my son away from a prodigious number of suspicious bathing beauties.

We had a bathing beauty of our own. My little angel adored swimming, so much so that if she saw the water and wasn't taken to the beach immediately, she was heartbroken. Miri-ange was unquestionably diva material. When she cried, she rested her little forehead on my shoulder and absolutely convinced me that the world was coming to an end. Christine insisted I was spoiling Miri-ange, because all she did was point and I carried her wherever she wanted to go. I thought little girls were meant to be spoiled.

I decided to work on Raoul's idea of the thin leather flesh-colored mask. The white was dashing and all for the theater, but I was overdressed enough as it was in Perros. The cobbler in town was a talented, ancient man who was thrilled to have something to do besides repair shoes. Somehow, he managed to convince me that he'd be able to do a much better job if I'd let him take a life mask of me. He said he did plaster casts of people with 'foot situations' all the time, and I shouldn't be so shy. Right, but the foot goes in the shoe; it's not right out there for everyone to stare, laugh and scream at. Anyway, he was a dear old man and if it ultimately made me less conspicuous, I could do it. I had to take Raoul; I was a nauseous wreck. It's like taking your clothes off in the middle of Paris. On a lighter note, Raoul told the cobbler that I was his twin brother.

Raoul. Raoul had to return to Paris. It was a bad day, a very tearful day. They promised to visit often, but it wasn't going to be as it had been—no more weekly raids. Christine was going to miss Manon so much; they raised the babies together, compared notes on everything.

Three days after they left, I mentioned Raoul in passing, and Christine fell silent. When I asked her what was wrong, she replied that she missed them and turned weepy.

"Them?" I asked. She nodded, extending her hand for my handkerchief. I felt all the hair on my body stand up. I felt a horrible cold panic, completely mindless.

"Do you mean them, or Manon, or Raoul ?" I asked.

"What did you say?" Christine demanded. Her eyes were flashing.

"You heard me."

"Yes, I did. I heard you, but I can't believe you. What are you asking me?"

"I'm asking if it's Raoul you're crying for." I replied.

"How can you ask me that, Erik? What's come over you?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I mention Raoul and you burst into tears. What do you expect me to think?"

"You were crying for him yourself only days ago! Did I take you task over it?"

"Christine, I was never married to him, if you recall."

"Are you trying to be an idiot, Erik? If you are, you're doing very well," she snapped. "Let me by, please."

I caught her hand. "No, not til you answer me."

"This isn't funny anymore. If you have even a tiny brain, you'll let me go and drop this ridiculous inquisition."

"Just tell me it's not Raoul you were crying for, Christine," I insisted.

"I won't. If you can honestly ask me a question like that…" her livid façade crumbled, and she began crying again. "…you don't deserve an answer!"

"You will answer me!" I growled.

"You're a sick man, Erik!" She snatched her arm away and ran to the bedroom.


	79. Chapter 79

Christine sent word that she'd take dinner in her room, so I was forced to suffer Reza's fretting.

"Oh, dear; I hope she isn't ill."

"She's not ill," I grumbled. "I don't know, maybe she is." Dinner looked vaguely inedible. It was too…green. "What is this slop? Is Anci trying to cook?"

The daroga frowned at me quizzically. "It's Moroccan; greens and grains, a cold salad. What's happened to your mood, Erik?"

I let my fork drop, disgusted. "I don't want some goddam cold salad; this isn't the desert, for God's sake!" I hollered for the benefit of the kitchen staff. "THIS IS FRANCE, AND WE EAT REAL, HOT FOOD HERE! THIS IS CAMEL RATIONS!"

"Erik!" Reza was scandalized.

Silke rushed out, curtseying continually. "I'm sorry, Sir. There isn't much available immediately, but there's bread and cheese and pickled onions." She had slathered the onions on the plate pretty thickly, which mollified me.

"That's quite alright, Silke. Thank you very much. And, may I have some wine, please? I don't know what this is, either." I eyed the orangey concoction in my glass suspiciously.

"It's fruit and yogurt, Sir, it's very refreshing, and good for the blood, I'm told."

"My blood is quite fine, thank you. I will not chug anything this color and consistency. Wine."

Silke filled a fresh glass with a pleasant Merlot, curtseyed for the thousandth time and scurried away.

"Erik, what the devil is wrong with you?" Reza demanded.

"This is a very poor time for Darius to go native on us."

Reza puzzled for a moment. Then a flash of inspiration lit his face. "You and Christine aren't arguing, are you?"

"No; I asked her a simple question and she refused to answer me. She's sulking because her husband had the temerity to call attention to her disloyalty."

"Disloyalty…that's impossible, I can't believe it," he grumbled. "Not Christine."

"You think not?"

"What have you done, Erik?"

"I? I've done nothing—except catch her crying over Raoul! Yes, I did, and when I demanded that she tell me otherwise, she refused. What do you make of that?" I was confident that with these facts at his disposal, Reza would be firmly on my side; I was so obviously the aggrieved party.

The daroga closed his eyes, shook his head slowly. "You didn't really accuse her, did you, Erik? Tell me you didn't."

"Well, what do you think? She admitted she'd miss them—'them', she said. But I'm no bloody fool."

"Oh, you're not, hm?"

"See here, Reza, what the devil is this about? What do you expect; that I'll stand by and be made a fool of in my own home?"

"Sadly, my friend, no one has to make you a fool. You do an exemplary job of it on your own," Reza sighed. "What ever would give you the idea that there's something wrong in Christine's missing them? Even if she was crying over Raoul, where's the harm in that? It doesn't mean anything!"

"Of course it means something, man! You've seen how he operates! He flashes a smile, puts a twinkle in the eyes, and the women fall all over themselves!"

"Erik, he's been there since childhood, for God's sake! If you want to know, I suspect the marriage didn't work because she looks on him as a brother! Anyway, that's beside the point. Can you really have so little faith in the two of them?"

"Yes! I know a thing or two about human nature, by God."

"Christine had ample opportunity to do as she pleased with Raoul--or anyone else--when you ran off to Budapest, if that was the case," he pointed out.

"She was still grieving for me then," I explained.

"And she's happy with you now! Erik, do yourself a favor. Go; tell her you know she's always been a good wife to you." Reza pleaded.

"I'll do nothing of the kind. I'm surprised at you, Reza." I excused myself and went downstairs.

I knew I wouldn't be permitted to sleep in the sanctuary, so after kisses and stories I returned to my cellar. I wrote and played until I was exhausted, then rolled into my coffin.

-0-0-0-0-

"Mah! Mah!" My baby diva thought hot cereal was marvelous. She kicked her feet and slapped the table. We did a bite, and a kiss, and a bite, and a kiss, and so on.

"Papa, you said we would go to the beeeeeeeech," Masson whined.

"Right after breakfast, Son."

"Miri-ange is too slooooooow."

"You were slow when you were a baby, too," I reminded him. "Why don't you and Christine go and collect your toys while you wait?"

"Come on, Christine!"

Reza'd been sipping his coffee, waiting to pounce. "Have you spoken to Christine?"

"No. And she hasn't spoken to me either. Why don't you go pester her?" Miri-ange made a swipe for the spoon. "Papa's Diva wants to feed herself, hm? What a big girl!"

"You've got the most pronounced tendency toward self-destruction of anyone I've ever known," he remarked.

"Mm. Part of my charm, don't you think?"

"I hadn't noticed."

"So you're breaking it to me gently then? It's over?"

"I'm afraid so," he admitted. "You just don't move me anymore."

"What's to become of me, Daroga? You've spoiled me for everyone else."

-0-0-0-0-

After lunch, we put the babies down for a nap and Christine said she wanted to talk to me. About time you've come to your senses, I thought. She indicated we should go to the cellar in case it got loud. I should have realized I was for it right then and there.

She took the chair, and I dragged the piano bench over. Christine's jaw was set the way it would do when she got one of her 'Rights for Women' tears on. She studied her hands for a moment.

"Erik, I don't know what came over you to make you blurt that out yesterday. I realize it was just an impulse, but what could make you think such a thing?"

"What do you expect me to think, Woman? He's not just anybody; he was your husband. It's no secret he wanted you back!"

"But I didn't want it, you know that. He was my husband for four months, Erik. Four months and a lifetime ago," she insisted.

"You were crying for him," I accused.

"And what if I was? He's all I have left of my father! It's got nothing to do with you!"

"It's got everything to do with me if I'm your husband!"

"And on what basis do you distrust your wife? Erik, you were the one in the next room with Josette. I know you would have done your business with her if I hadn't interrupted. You were the one who found consolation in Budapest, and she's here in this very house!"

"That's not fair, Christine, you're the one who said it was alright. You made that decision!"

"I know that. I trust you; do you hear me, Erik? I trust you. I know that you could talk you way back into Anci's bed if you wanted to. I know that you could charm any woman who'd bother to look past the mask. You don't believe it, but I know it."

She's always been convinced that I could have any woman I wanted, ridiculous girl. I had nothing to say; I just shook my head.

"Erik, if you don't trust me, we have no marriage," she murmured.

"What? What are you saying?" I snapped.

"I'm saying that you're Masson and Miri-ange's father, and I would never want to deprive you of each other. But I've had enough, Erik. I know it seems like a trivial thing after all we've come through together, but who says love has to make sense?" Her eyes were flooded. I felt there must be some mistake; I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"Christine—"

"No more, Erik. I want you to get your things—" she whimpered into a handkerchief "—out of our—my room. I can't take any more rage, or jealousy, or violence…"

She darted past me—I was stunned—and was locked in the bedroom before I made the landing. I pounded on the door, hollered, demanded she speak to me. The children woke up wailing, and Christine screamed at me to go away. I heard my big boy say 'I'm scared, Mama.' Reza appeared to persuade me away from the door, but it was no good. Finally Darius joined him and they dragged me down to the cellar.


	80. Chapter 80

I pulled out all the stops. I left roses and music outside Christine's door. I collected an assortment of pretty shells, slipping them one or two at a time into the pocket of her dressing gown. I invited her to walk on the shore after the children were in bed. She refused, but I could see she was pleased.

"Do you mind if I continue to invite you? I don't want to make a pest of myself."

"No, I don't mind, but don't expect me to agree," she kicked at an invisible speck on the floor. "And you do mean to make a pest of yourself."

"An endearing pest, perhaps; not an annoying one." I moved a shade closer. Tricky stuff, knowing how far to push.

Christine sighed.

"It's just a walk; what are you afraid of?" I whispered. She scrunched her shoulder up; too close.

"You know what I'm afraid of," she accused, palm floating over my lapel to keep me at distance.

I kissed each fingertip. "Why refuse me, then?"

"Because I can't resist you, even now," she admitted.

"And how is that a problem?"

"The lovemaking's never been a problem. Don't," she extracted her hand.

I bade her goodnight and went for a quick brandy. She likes to read when she goes to bed. After about 25 minutes, I crept to the top of the stairs and sat silently, waiting for Christine to extinguish her light. When she settled down to sleep, I threw my voice, singing her lullabies as I did when she was an orphaned opera rat and I was an angel.

-0-0-0-0-

I continued to be baffled by the triviality of the infraction that had caused the rupture between Christine and me. My heart would have broken and I would have gone completely mad, except that I absolutely refused to believe it was over, no matter what Christine said. Reza's theory was that it was like putting weights on a scale; some smaller, some larger, but at some point the balance was tipped and that was the end of it. Who knew?

"It's going to take more than seashells and roses, my boy," he chuckled.

"Oh? You think so?"

"Mm. I think drastic measures are called for."

"I considered making a trip into Paris for something sparkly, but I don't want her to think I'm trying to bribe her with trinkets," I confessed.

"Depends upon the trinket, doesn't it?"I shook my head. "Not Christine. Don't forget, she's a woman with a brain and all that."

-0-0-0-0-

I continued pressing my suit with patience and enormous charm, but Christine was unmovable. Still, I refused to rant or give in to despair. Weeks stretched into months, and we settled into a strange, platonic rhythm of sorts; Christine gave no sign that she missed having me for a husband, but neither did she give any sign of wanting me to go away.

"Erik, we've received an invitation to Chagny, and I'd like to go." She advised. "Will you come?"

"You've not mentioned…anything to Manon in your letters?"

"No." I waited in case some explanation was forthcoming, but Christine offered none.

"Yes, I'll come. Whatever you like, but the sleeping arrangements--"

"I'll tell Manon when we arrive."

-0-0-0-0-

The children and I had a marvelous ride down to Paris, singing songs and peering out at the scenery. Miri-ange had a fascination with goats, went into raptures every time she saw one. I turned to Christine.

"I think our back garden is sufficient to keep a goat; don't you, Christine?"

"Hm? I'm sorry, pardon?" She'd been gazing out the opposite window absently.

"A goat," I smiled.

"Oh, for pity's sake, Erik," she huffed, turning back to the window.

She didn't speak another word until Chagny was in sight.

"Erik, I can't tell them," she rasped, lip quivering.

"Chr—"

"Don't—ask me anything!" she hissed. "Just hush--for once! I can't, and you'd better not, either. We'll just have to work it out between us." I was going to agree, but she glared at me. I nodded silently. It would be alright; there was sure to be a divan in the bedroom I could flop on.

-0-0-0-0-

It was marvelous to see them again. The baby girls remembered one another and had lots to talk about. Somehow, I found myself immobilized after dinner with the two of them on my lap; it was heavenly. I wish I'd had babies decades ago. Raoul and Masson had a swordfight. With the men doing childcare, the ladies were free to stroll in the garden.

After the babies went down for the night, Raoul and I had a cognac and an obscenely good cigar.

"Christ, boy, this is a nice little shack. I'd've married you myself."

"I prefer blondes, you might have noticed."

"Don't knock me til you've tried me," I teased.

"Christine alright?" he asked lightly.

"Hm?"

"She seems a little…off," he shrugged. "I can't define it."

"Probably just the travel and excitement," I suggested. "She's been looking forward to this so."

"You've not got her That Way again have you?" he grinned.

"Ah, no. Definitely not."

"I know; how to find her alone, hm?" Raoul nodded. "I can't imagine what it's like with two little ones. It's bad enough with one. My timing is always off," he complained.

"Wait til you get to be my age and timing is no longer the issue," I chuckled. I felt a black mood sniffing around my ankles. I didn't want to talk about Christine anymore; not if I had to maintain the charade that everything was rosy. I encouraged Raoul to give me an update on the Opera.

It was the same as ever, only more so. Raoul confessed he'd not realized what an asset I'd been til he'd seen the tacky sets and costumes they churned out without my influence. Raoul told the managers that the Opera Ghost had been worth every penny, and that they were a pair of jackasses running him out. In response, they mumbled something about public safety.

-0-0-0-0-

When I entered the bedroom, I saw and smelled the smoke of the freshly blown out candle. Christine lay there with her eyes clamped shut tight, feigning sleep. She'd set a pillow and blanket on the divan; I was comfortable enough. I felt her watching me as I settled in, but I didn't say anything. She was having a strange day; it was best I left her to it.

In the morning, the ladies left early for the city; serious shopping was in order. Raoul and I took the children for a ride around the grounds. In the afternoon, we went down to the creek at the back of the property. Raoul led us to a place that was slightly over ankle deep, for a splashing, squealing party. It's fortunate that I'm not a wealthy comte with a huge estate. I'd never get a thing done; every minute I'd be roaming the grounds for interesting stuff to do with my babies: mice and frogs to study, rocks to throw, trees to climb or creeks to splash in.

When we returned—late—for naptime, the governess was speechless at our dripping, bedraggled appearance. She made no secret of her disapproval as she carted the babies off for dry clothes, milk and a snooze. Since there was no one to scold us that there were better things to do, Raoul and I passed out in the sunny conservatory.

I woke up with a sword blade in my face.

"Engarde, old man." I sat up gingerly and Raoul tossed me my sword.

"You'll regret this, my lovely. I'm old but I'm clever," I warned.

Our swordplay ranged over the entire house. A horrified maid with a huge vase of tulips skittered away with a squeak. The butler shook his head and grumbled under his breath about "Madame Comtesse". One maid scurried after us, righting any furniture we upset; another darted ahead, trying to rescue breakables before the onslaught.

Finally, we made our way onto the garden balcony, to the boundless relief of the household staff. We were slashing away when the ladies appeared at the door, laden with booty. Manon smiled, but Christine screamed "ERIK! RAOUL!" and fell over in a dead faint.

I brought Christine to a lounge on the balcony; a maid brought smelling salts and a cool cloth. Christine came around quickly. She clutched me to her breast, nearly smothering me. It was delightful.

"Oh, God, please don't fight!" she cried.

Raoul knelt and kissed Christine's hand. "No, Lotti, we were just playing! Why would we fight, silly girl?" he soothed.

Christine looked from him to me. "Really?"

I nodded.

She sighed and raised an unsteady hand to her forehead. "I guess I still can't believe you two love each other. I saw the swords, and I immediately imagined the worst."

"Oh, Christine! That was ages ago!" Manon laughed breezily. "Aperitif, anyone?"


	81. Chapter 81

Raoul and I agreed that since the ladies had been gone all day, it was our turn to head into Paris for some debauchery after dinner. Christine had been regarding me strangely since the fencing incident, but once we announced our intentions for the evening, she started giving me the Stink-eye. I smiled gaily and refused to let it trouble me.

As soon as we got to Paris, I dashed to the candy store for coins and marrons glaces. Not that they weren't available in Perros, but they weren't as good; or maybe it was my imagination. We went to visit the green fairy first, then off to the Persian coffeehouse, more crowded than ever. I felt such pangs of longing; how I loved Paris.

As our evening about town wore on, I found myself perched on the horns of a dilemma. Likely we'd end the evening at that charming brothel, and in contrast to the other times I'd been there, I would've welcomed the opportunity to sample the wares. Of course, I couldn't do that while I was pretending to be Christine's devoted husband; saying anything to Raoul was completely out of the question. We had a couple of quick drinks, played a bit of baccarat and made our escape just as a lovely tart moved to perch on my lap.

-0-0-0-0-

Christine fired angry darts at every opportunity during breakfast. I didn't understand the problem. She hadn't objected so strenuously to my having a night out when we were really married; now, it made no sense at all. She was so goddamned moody, I would have sworn she was pregnant. Whatever her problem was, I had several items on my agenda, so I caught up to her on the stairs.

"A minute?"

"Alright." I followed her into the room we were pretending to share. Christine perched primly on the bed.

"Have you said anything to Manon yet?" I asked.

"No!" Her eyes were wide. "You haven't—"

"No, no," I assured her. "It's your news. Do you intend to tell them or not?"

"I'm having a nice holiday; I don't want to bring up any unpleasantness."

"Riii-iiight. Well, that being the case, I would recommend you stop giving me the Stink-eye so blatantly."

She dropped her eyes. "I didn't realize it was blatant."

"Oh, yes. Raoul noticed right away that you seemed off somehow." I cleared my throat; we were coming to the tricky part of the conversation. "And, actually, I'd have a nicer holiday myself if you'd tell our friends of our arrangement."

"Why?" she demanded.

"Because I'd feel more comfortable not having to pretend. Because they're going to find out sooner or later anyway. Because they deserve to know. Because I wanted to get laid last night, and I couldn't without betraying your big secret."

Christine's mouth dropped open. For several seconds, nothing further happened; then a scarlet flush crept fetchingly over her bust, throat, and onto her cheeks. She flew at me with a cry, but I was able to catch her wrists before she could land any blows. We had an enjoyable tussle; Christine alternately demanding that I release her and calling me a beast.

I am no beast. The wrestling match would have ended quite differently if I was. I bundled her up and tossed her onto the bed. She looked horrified, but didn't rush to arrange her skirts properly or to lessen her vulnerability.

"Christine, what do you want from me?"

"Nothing!" she screamed.

"Prove it!" I fired back. I stalked to the window and looked out at the road to the city, winding away into the distance. I hadn't intended an argument; I was just as angry as Christine. Finally, Christine broke she silence.

"I want to stop caring about you," she admitted. "When will you stop haunting me?"

I sat beside her; she allowed me to take her hand, but she refused to look at me.

"Then send me away, Angel," I whispered. "I don't want to go; but neither do I want you to suffer. Send me away." It didn't sound as though the words were coming from my mouth. I seemed to be watching the scene as if it was being played onstage; unreal. I can't be urging Christine to send me away, I thought, because if I was, I'd be dying inside, and I don't feel anything.

Christine shook her head, just once. "I can't."

"The children will be alright, Christine. I'll stay nearby and see them every day." I sounded so cheery and confident.

"Not for the babies. For me. I don't know what I was thinking; I know I suffer more without you than I do with you," she sighed.

I was utterly confused. "I don't want you to do anything that makes you unhappy," I reminded her.

"I know that," Christine smiled a little. "I think you don't have a single thought that's not about me somehow."

"You would be correct in thinking so," I admitted. Christine smoothed a crease on my shirt and my heart became a butterfly. "I am sorry I'm not a better man for you. I try every day."

"I know you do." She shoved herself against me. My arms flew wide; I didn't know what to do with them. "I've missed your arms around me." Ah. I embraced her then, soaking up the contact like parched earth does a summer cloudburst.

"I reacted so instinctively when I saw you and Raoul yesterday. I suppose it could have been like that for you when I was crying over Raoul that day," she ventured.

"It could have been," I agreed.

"Perhaps I overreacted."

I said nothing.

"Erik? Did you hear me? I said, perhaps I overreacted," she worried. Silly girl, did she really imagine I could rebuff her?

"I heard you, Angel. I was just thinking how much I'd love to kiss you."

"Kiss me? Is that all?" she frowned. "After all this time?"

"Well, it's a start."


	82. Chapter 82

Our first visit at Chagny after relocating to Perros-Guirec was excellent, even excluding getting my little wife back. We'd missed our friends—and the city—more than we'd admitted. It was good to catch up; it was good to ride through Paris in a carriage and experience her again. It was like returning to a lover's embrace. Raoul and I took turns running romantic interference with the babies so we could each lure our respective sweethearts away. I loaded a basket with picnic goodies, located a quilt, and kidnapped Christine down to the creek. Except for leaving windows open, we'd never gotten up to mischief in the open air, and it was a novel experience for me.

"Erik, your mask."

"What?"

"Take it off, you goose."

"No; what if someone happens by?" She laughed unmercifully. "I fail to see what's so amusing, Madame."

"What if someone happens by?" she cried, clutching her sides. "You're not so worried about the rest of yourself out in the sunshine!"

"That's different. Do take care you don't split your corset laughing so hard," I groused.

"Here, old man; help me out of it and then we won't have to worry."

-0-0-0-0-

The first order of business for me upon our return to Perros was to locate a goat for my little diva. The last time I had anything to do with goats—well, for all practical purposes I didn't know a goddamned thing about goats. Still, it stood to reason the thing needed some sort of shelter, and as I remembered, they'd eat anything, so an enclosure was wanted so it wouldn't set to work on the house after it had eaten all the grass, trees, shrubs, and children's toys.

"What are you doing?" Reza sashayed over with an inane grin on his face.

"What does it look like?" I gave him a pre-emptive Stink-eye, but it was no good. The man could smell mischief a mile away.

"He's making a goat house, but it's a secret!" hollered my snitching son. "Uncle Reza, push me!" He'd been hanging over his tree swing on his stomach and twirling around in circles, but now he was ready to go flying and crack his skull properly.

"I love goat," Reza grinned, giving Masson a shove.

"For god's sake, man! This isn't dinner; it's Miri-ange's pet!" I was mortified.

"You don't say; you'd better make sure you clarify that with Darius."

"Oh, god," I groaned.

"You might have drawn up a blueprint," Reza noted, sizing up the, ah, goat house. "It has some rather interesting angles." I saw no need to dignify that with a response, so he persisted. "Have you mentioned this new addition to You Know Who?"

"Not yet."

"It's just like the old days, Erik, only in a different way," the daroga chuckled. "You'll have to give me some sort of sign when you intend to bring it up so that I can give you two the privacy you'll need."

That's what a pitiful old bachelor knows. I didn't intend to bring up anything. I'd have the goat snacking happily away in the garden before I breathed a word of it to Christine. I reckoned she couldn't say no after she saw how transported Miri-ange was.

I took it as a sign of divine approval that I'd managed to get so far with the scheme before anyone took notice of my construction project in the back garden. All the banging and bustling, and Christine hadn't been the least bit suspicious. Right then I should have realized she was up to something herself, but I suppose we're both a bit oblivious when we've got a project to attend to.

My admission that I'd considered sampling the wares at the house of convenience when she and I were on the outs had Christine stewing about The Evils of Prostitution. She managed to procure a copy of The Subjection of Women and she was off to the races again. First things first, however; before she sallied forth to rescue the painted ladies of Paris, there was an entire sleepy little seaside town full of oppressed sisters to incite to riot.

I first caught wind of the fact that Christine was planning another outrage when I happened to see a leaflet in the bakery as Masson, Miri-ange and I made our daily rounds. There it was on the bakery counter: VOTES FOR WOMEN, blah blah blah. I may have blasphemed even as the dear woman handed over our coffee cake. I snatched a leaflet to carry home and confront 'Christine Rouen, Comtesse de Chagny', whoever the devil that was supposed to be.

"Christine, what is this?" I proffered the leaflet, whispering harshly. We'd just put the babies down for a nap. "Who the hell is Christine Rouen, Comtesse de Chagny? Make up your mind!"

"Silly," she breezed downstairs with me in pursuit. "It's just publicity. If you say 'Comtesse' anything, more people will show up. Don't worry," she cooed. We had reached the bottom of the stairs; she kissed me and fluttered away.

"Wait a minute! You think that makes it alright? It's not alright, Christine! You have babies now; you don't have time for this nonsense anymore."

She whirled on me, and her eyebrows said she was not persuaded. "Nonsense?"

"Um…"

"I need to do something with my mind, Erik. The babies don't occupy every minute of my day."

"Then let's make another one!" I whined.

"Erik! I don't care how many children we have, I'm not going to forget about votes for women."

"Not again, Christine, not again."

"You're being silly," she sang.

There was no reasoning with her, I knew that much. There was nothing for it except to inundate her with babies so she didn't have time to leave the house.

I was deep into plotting how I'd get to Christine—since Miri-ange she was back to pushing those English curses again—when I realized that Christine and I had become some sort of demi-celebrities in Perros. Imagine my horror.

Masson, Miri-ange and I did a daily loop stroll of downtown; bakery, confectionary, bookstore, fountain, with a detour to the fish market if Christine was tagging along. At the fountain, we'd struck up a wonderful friendship with a new flock of ducks and several pigeons. We were feeding our friends when I noticed a couple of women observing us a little too closely for my taste. Being seized upon and hauled away by police tends to make a shy fellow like me even more skittish. When Miri-ange took off screeching and racing around the fountain, I seized my opportunity to confront the biddies. I tried to put a smile in my voice.

"Good morning, Ladies; may I be of service?"

"Forgive our staring, Monsieur," said the thin dark blue one. "We couldn't help admiring those lovely children."

Well, obviously she was a brilliant and discriminating woman.

"Not at all," I nodded, preparing to excuse myself.

"Excuse me, but aren't you the paramour of the Comtesse de Chagny?" asked the rounder brown one.

God help me, but the women of Perros are a brazen lot.

"I beg your pardon, Madame. I am her husband," I fumed.

"And the Opera Ghost, aren't you?" My stomach did a little jig and my heart attempted an escape up my throat and out my mouth.

"Pa-pa, Pa-pa, Pa-pa," my little diva sang. She couldn't tolerate anything less than my undivided attention for more than the merest seconds.

"If you'll excuse me," I nodded once again and rushed after Miri-ange. "Papa's good little girl; thank you," I whispered, scooping her up and making tracks for home.


	83. Chapter 83

I couldn't believe that Christine was back on the Women's Rights thing after a minimal hiatus to bear a couple of children. Surely there was some womanly instinct that had not yet kicked in with her; Manon had never been a strident type, but she was perfectly mollified with just one little baby. (Oh, and another one waiting in the wings. Manon had scribbled a note to Christine; apparently our visit was all it took for Raoul to apply himself once again. Manon said he was thrilled and scribbling lists of boy names.) And Charlotte was a fairly ordinary baby, besides—cute enough, to be sure, in a chubby, pink, average baby sort of way—not brilliant and angel-kissed like ours. How many exceptional offspring would it take before Christine chucked the Votes for Women nonsense? I began to doubt that I was up to the challenge at my age.

Christine was poring over some books—the sort which are laced with poisonous ideas--and I was trying to distract her. I'd tried music, whining, clowning, and lovemaking, all to no avail; I pulled my trump card and told her about the goat.

"We already have a goat, Darling; we have you," Christine reminded me absently.

"But Masson's got Christine, and—"

"She's rotten, Erik; rottener by miles than Masson was at her age. You never tell her no."

"That's not true." I told her no once; she was about to dart into the street.

"You carry her absolutely everywhere when she's got two perfectly good legs to stand on."

"It's a crime for a man to cuddle his baby now?" I demanded, outraged.

"Anyway, I don't see how indulging this momentary fascination with goats will help. She's a baby, Erik; in another week she won't even remember what a goat is."

"Well, you would say that. If your precious firstborn asked for an elephant with bright blue spots, he'd have one." I may have been sulking.

"Erik Opera Ghost Rouen!" She slammed a book shut in amazement. I knew I was for it when she called me by my full name, such as it was. "Who brought that mangy cat home? Was it me?"

I did not like the way the conversation was shaping up; I retreated a little deeper into my sulk.

"Was it me, Erik?"

I went for my best Phantom scowl.

"Don't look at me in that tone of voice." She was actually wagging a finger at me. Imagine it; five years ago that look would've given her nightmares. I was sadly out of practice, that's what.

"You brought Christine home—Masson squeaked once and you brought the cat home," she insisted on rubbing it in. I attempted a tactical withdrawal, but the shameless harridan pursued me.

"You're the one who's laden with chocolates like Papa Noel!"

I wheeled on her.

"Hah! That's what you know! I used to leave you chocolates when you were a skinny rat-ballerina! You owe whatever figure you've got to me and my chocolate, you ungrateful little baggage!"

"I owe whatever figure I've got to Masson and growing up, you delusional old man."

"Hah! Masson, see, you prove my point! Masson, Masson, Masson! The poor dear neglected—"

"NeGLECTed?"

"—little angel; all she wants is one little goat. One little goat, and Papa will care for it; it will be no trouble to Mama or anyone else. One little goat; what harm could it be?"

Christine threw up her hands. Shameless wheedling will often produce results when nothing else will.

"You're impossible. You're worse than a child; get the goat then," she grumbled, pushing past me.

"I already did."

"What?" Her eyes flashed delightfully.

"Farmer's delivering it tomorrow."

'Don't look at me in that tone of voice.'

I could still hear Christine chiding me as if I was a naughty choirboy. I stared at myself in the mirror. In the flesh-colored mask I could almost pass for a burn victim. Without it, well… And then the white mask: classic, elegant, theatrical; it looked like the Opera Ghost staring back at me. I tried out a scowl, a haughty glare and a mad stare.

If I didn't know me, I'd still be scared. Obviously, Christine didn't share my view of things. To her, I was as forbidding as a wet kitten.

"You're making entirely too much of this, Erik."

"The devil I am."

"What are you, having some sort of crisis of encroaching old age?"

"Well…" I whined. Reza leaned forward confidentially.

"You're not having…some trouble?"

"No no no. I wouldn't resort to that poison you foisted on me last time anyway," I grimaced. I still ached in unmentionable places just recalling that amatory debacle. "I'm just…not the Phantom anymore, Daroga."

"I should say not; and a good thing, too. You're a husband and father, living at the seaside with a lovely young family, a cat and a goat. All to the good, as far as I'm concerned, or would you rather be alone with your rheumatism and rats in that fetid dungeon?" He huffed, just in case I'd failed to catch his disapproval.

"People used to scream and run if they even _thought _they heard my footfalls. _Christine herself_ was scared of me, back in the day," I shoved my hair back.

"I'm going to submit that she's not been scared of you in a very, very long time, old friend. Perhaps you've been deluding yourself as to just how horrifying you are. I find it hard to believe that a young woman would run to a marauding gargoyle when she's been disappointed in love. She came to you for comfort, not nightmares, as I recall," Reza chuckled.

He just didn't understand; it was stupid my even bringing it up to him. I was a used-up old has-been, a toothless old tomcat.

On my goat-purchasing visit to the farm, I had, of course, selected the mildest and most exemplary goat of the batch. I don't know much about goat aesthetics, especially from a baby girl's perspective, but I found it to be an attractive goat; mainly white with a heather grey splotch here and there. When the farmer unloaded it from the cart, I noticed that its eyes were the same color as mine and Masson's. I confess I hadn't noticed that odd detail when it was in the bunch with all the other goats; I was more worried about them eating my trousers and what I might be stepping in; I think I would not have made much of a farmer. To this day I don't know if all goats have golden eyes.

The household was duly summoned to the garden. Actually, Masson crashed in the kitchen door and hollered 'MAAAMAAAAAAA! THE GOOOOOAT'S HEEEEEEEEERE!'

Masson and I went to pluck Sissy from her crib. In the garden, everyone was clustered around the guest of honor, who was already munching some bit of the flora. Christine's arms were folded, and her eyebrow was dimpled as she eyed the creature.

"Let's see what's here for Papa's little diva," I crooned, crouching alongside the goat. Miri-ange emitted a series of ecstatic shrieks and giggles and lunged at the startled creature. I caught her pudgy little hands. "Wait, we mustn't frighten her, she's a baby, too, just like Miri-ange. Can we pat her nicely?"

Yes, of course we could; pat pat pat on the neck. I plucked a bit of grass and helped my little darling to offer it to the goat. The rapture on my daughter's face as the goat lips tickled her fingers brought tears to my eyes.

"Beebee," Miri-ange whispered.

"Yes, she's a baby, too."

Suddenly, Christine began fishing on my person in a most proprietary way for my handkerchief.

"Erik, it's got a smudge on its nose," she disapproved. She scrubbed mercilessly on the little thing's snout until it began to set up a bleating protest, which naturally set Miri-ange to screaming; already she and the goat were soul mates. Masson began to moan in support of his sister; 'Mamaaa, nooo.' He hid against Uncle Reza's leg.

Darius grumbled something in Persian about city folk and shoved through the mass of humanity to the pitiful goat. He wrestled the handkerchief from Christine and crouched, glaring at the little goat's nose as it calmed itself with a mouthful of weeds.

"No, it's just a few black hairs, Comtesse, it's no smudge," he assured her.

"MUDZH!" Wailed Miri-ange, all but throwing herself from my arms. "MUDZH! MUH-HUUUDZH!" There was nothing for it; she had the strength of her brother in a daintier package. I set her down and she flung her arms around the neck of the creature thereafter to be known as The Smudge. The Smudge continued munching in perfect equanimity.

The rest of the afternoon passed relatively uneventfully, considering that Miri-ange refused to leave the garden under any circumstances. Knowing what little I did about baby attention spans, I reckoned twenty minutes of watching The Smudge eat would have been plenty for her, but no. She sat with the damned goat for hours, patting and talking, singing; oh, they had a marvelous day. I was not permitted to leave her alone with the goat, so I sat on the back stoop and lost all feeling in my bony ass until Darius finally took pity on me and brought me a chair, a snack, and a cognac.

Of course, he also brought me little Fahim. Darius and Anci's firstborn was a timid soul. (Why couldn't Christine and I have such a peaceful, easy child?) He did not wish to pat the goat; he would sit on my lap and observe, thank you very much. Darius refused to see a goat as entertainment; it was nothing but stew to him, and so he had no interest in helping Fahim overcome his reserve. Anci was no good; she was scared of the goat, predictably enough. Besides, she was half gone again and no good for anything except eating, sleeping and crying. So Fahim and I became great friends that afternoon; turned out I actually remembered a few Persian folk songs, and by dinner time, he, Masson, Miri-ange and I were serenading The Smudge.

The first hurdle of the evening was actually bath time. To Miri-ange's way of thinking, Mudzh should come to the bath with her. Needless to say, Mama did not agree; it only took the briefest glance at her face to realize that suggesting bathing the baby in the garden was not on.

"You see? I told you this would be nothing but trouble, but you had to get her a goat. At least Christine can come in the house!" She flounced off, leaving me to deal with the whole bath situation.

Right. I gave a peep in the kitchen to see that Darius was not around; he'd have a bloody conniption. The way was clear; it was only a dash through the kitchen and dining room, up the stairs and into the bathroom. I reckoned I could make it, so I ducked the human baby under one arm and the goat baby under the other. What's a little more cleanup? The bathroom was always a disaster after bath time anyway.

"HAHA! SMUDGE!"

"Masson, ssshhh. It's a secret bath time with Smudge," I counseled. "Just this once for a special occasion." As if Miri-ange would understand that.

Normally Christine leaves us to ourselves at bath time. To this day, I believe we were ratted out somehow. All I know is that we'd just finished shampoos when the door clattered open and I was in trouble. Her toe was tapping ominously on the tile floor and she looked as if she'd been sucking on lemons. The babies were splashing gaily and…actually, The Smudge was eating a towel, I believe.

"Erik."

"Hm?" It is extremely difficult to affect a look of beatific blamelessness with my face and yellow goat eyes. "Bath's going very well…"

"Take that animal back into the garden immediately, or I'll tell Darius it's up here."

Those are words to strike terror into anyone's heart. Have I mentioned that Darius is a bit of a nelly? You'd think we were the hired help the way he carries on about his house. As I put The Smudge to bed, I could hear my little diva wailing disconsolate as Mama finished up the bath. When I returned to the bedroom, Christine was trying in vain to nurse Miri-ange to sleep. To say she shot me the Stink-eye doesn't approach it. I retreated with Masson to his room for story time.

"Mama's angry about Smudge," he observed softly.

"No; Mama and I conferred about it, and she agreed we could get a goat. She just wants to establish some ground rules. We neglected to discuss ground rules, and sometimes people's expectations differ. Remember that when you're a grown man."

He nodded solemnly.

"Christine gets to sleep on the bed with me, but Smudge has to stay outside."

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

It took about two weeks to establish a new routine around The Smudge which was satisfactory to both of the women in my life. Even at her tender age, Miri-ange drove a hard bargain; right then I thought God help her husband, whoever he may turn out to be.


	84. Chapter 84

"Sweet suffering Christ!"

It was Paris all over again; dueling perfumes in the entry hall and cackling hens in the library. Here it was, the morning after and nauseating floral demons still lurked, waiting to leap at my pitiful olfactory as I descended the stairs. I staggered to the kitchen table and asked Darius for something to settle my stomach. He clanged a chamomile tea down in front of me and stomped off.

"What the devil's wrong with him?"

Reza peeked over the paper he was reading. "Are you asking me?"

"No; I'm asking the roast in the pot. Who else would I be asking?"

"His wife was with the suffragettes last night," he replied.

"_Anci?_ Oh, for god's sake, he's got nothing to worry about. She wouldn't understand a word they're saying—she probably fell asleep in the corner," I snickered.

"I hope so, for your sake."

"Where was the baby, anyway? Surely Darius didn't keep her!" Darius did not do childcare; he firmly believed that was woman's work. No doubt I seemed more alien to him than ever, given that I'd leapt into active fatherhood with both feet.

"No; I believe that's part of the problem. She took the baby along. I believe Darius suspects little Soraya will absorb the poisonous ideas simply by being in the room," Reza chuckled.

I meditated awhile on the idea that Darius might hate me for being the indirect cause of his little wife becoming a suffragette. I would have thought he had other, rather more personal reasons to hate me, prickly, proud Muslim that he was. I took extraordinary pains to avoid Anci—and not just for Christine's sake. At the heart of it, it seemed to me that I wanted to know that Darius forgave me, if that makes any sense. It was a strange place to find myself in; not so long ago the only good graces that interested me were Christine's. Now, the short list of people I gave a damn about was into double digits. Ridiculous; no wonder I couldn't scare anyone anymore. Who's ever heard of a warm, cuddly ghost?

I drained the chamomile tea. "Anyway, Reza, I can't stay. I've been sent after candied ginger." I began rummaging in cabinets. "Where the devil would candied ginger be?" Luckily Silke came to my rescue.

"Candied ginger?" Reza's ears pricked up. He donned his 'We're Having Another Baby' grin.

"Don't be ridiculous; the woman's entitled to have a bit of dyspepsia. It doesn't mean anything."

Masson trundled in holding Miri-ange's hand. They looked breathtaking; all rumpled and tousle-haired from sleep. Clearly they'd been ordered to find Papa. My little diva released her brother's hand and padded over to be picked up. She set her head on my shoulder, whispering my name and patting my cheek.

"Mama says hurry up with the ginger now," Masson announced.

"Right, there's my cue," I nodded at Reza and hustled upstairs with Miri-ange.

I was searching for Masson; it was time for his lesson. He wasn't in his lair or in the garden; he and Christine weren't trailing Silke; ultimately I went upstairs to look for him. I heard little voices coming from the bathroom.

My children were arranged around Masson's potty, pants at their ankles, both of them. Masson was explaining that Miri-ange was to point and pee when he realized that there was a problem. He leaned over to have a closer look; I decided that was most definitely my cue. I breezed in, trying to seem nonchalant.

"Miri go big girl," my little diva explained.

"Yes," I smiled, turning her around and seating her properly. "This is how big girls go." I turned to her brother, who was wearing a concerned frown. "Pull your pants up, Son."

"Papa, I was tying to show her—"

"I know; that's very kind of you. We'll discuss it later, hm?"

Meanwhile, nothing was happening with the little diva. Perhaps it was a rehearsal. She was just sitting there, looking at me.

"Is it coming, Miri-ange?"

"Uh uh. No peepee."

I plucked her up, fixed her clothing, and sent her on her way. She made her way downstairs, dutifully clutching the railing, muttering something about The Smudge.

After story time, I sat patiently with Masson, waiting for him to formulate his questions. I found it strange that he'd never noticed before that Miri-ange was different since they had bathed together. Oh, well; I suppose that is a salient difference between little boys and big boys.

"Papa, what happened to Miri-ange?"

"Nothing, Son; she's a girl like Mama. You're a boy like me. Remember girls are fancy?"

He nodded, very solemn. "Why are girls different?"

Oh my. "Well, I think they're different so boys like you can find them beautiful and fall in love with a very special one someday."

"Like you and Mama."

"Mm hm."

He seemed satisfied with that, but something was still on his mind. "You're old, Papa, like Uncle Reza, but Mama is still pretty new."

"Yes, Mama and I have several years between us," I admitted.

"Why didn't she choose a newer man?" My big bear wondered, scooting down under the comforter.

"You'd have to ask Mama," I smiled, feeling slightly used up. "But I suspect she chose me out of love, without consideration for age. I know that's why I chose her."

"When I marry, I'm going to choose a new lady like you did," he decided.

"That sounds fine, Son."

I told Christine that her son had wondered why she'd chosen such an old man. I didn't want to tell her about the potty incident, because I felt that would be another Biblical-scale fiasco.

"Oh, Erik," she crooned, setting her book aside. She cuddled me sympathetically. I really wasn't feeling depressed about it. I knew Masson meant nothing; he was only trying to get information. However, if Christine wanted to commiserate with me, well, I wasn't going to complain. "You don't feel old to me."

"Well, that's what they say," I agreed.

"What do they say?"

"You're only as old as the girl you feel."

She pretended to be horrified, my little suffragette. There was nothing for it except to convince her that I wasn't a pig; it was a delightful game.

As soon as Manon felt up to the trip, famille Chagny turned up for seaside fun. The new addition was another girl, Madeleine. She looked exactly like Raoul—if Raoul was tiny and toothless. Manon seemed a little drawn and carried her lips tightly; I knew Christine would sort her out.

I could scarcely admit to myself how much I'd missed Raoul. We slipped away after dinner for a stroll around town. He fished out a couple of exemplary cigars. It's delightful to be in public with Raoul; all the lovely ladies slow, and smile. I felt he appraised the local talent a bit too closely, however, deliriously happily married as I was.

"This isn't such a bad town after all," he chuckled, after a particularly comely trio passed.

"You're dreadful; Manon has just given you another perfect little angel!"

"Forgot to put the stem on the apple, didn't she," he grumbled.

"I'm sorry?"

"I need a son, Erik!"

"I certainly hope you haven't conveyed this disappointment to her," I worried.

"Oh I have—she knows I'm disappointed."

"Raoul, for god's sake! You're young, there'll be plenty more babies!"

"Hmph. You've heard of men with four, five, six daughters, even." He shook his head. "I've got a baaaad feeling about this. I don't even know that I want to bother."

"That's perfectly ridiculous. She's a beautiful girl and a marvelous wife to you. Go on and complain to me then, if you must, to blow off steam—but don't make dear Manon suffer."

He was thoughtful for about a block. "I could take a mistress," he mused.

"You've not even been married five years and you're giving up! Is this the same man who pursued me all the way to Budapest and hung onto Christine like a terrier dog?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Could a boy child really be that critical?

"It's not like it is with you and Christine, Erik," Raoul shrugged. "I don't expect her to be everything to me. She was a suitable girl, pretty and pleasant. I knew she'd be a good hostess."

"You love her though, Raoul; I know you do," I insisted.

He nodded. "I do," he admitted. "But—never mind." He patted my shoulder. "You're a dear friend, Erik."

"You too, my Comte."

We finished our walk and our cigars in companionable silence. I knew what Raoul was going to say; I was glad he thought better of saying it. So long as it remained unsaid, it was alright there between us.

"Erik, I need you to entertain Manon for awhile tomorrow."

I looked up from my book. "'Entertain Manon'; very well," I agreed.

"I need to give Raoul a piece of my mind," my darling bride muttered. She was taking out her irritation with Raoul on her lovely hair.

I popped out of bed and went to the rescue. "What's this all about?"

"Poor Manon! Erik, he's made her feel miserable about having another girl baby," she slammed the brush into my hand.

"He mentioned it to me—"

"And you gave him the devil!"

"I had a few things to say, yes. He's terrified of ending up with a houseful of girls," I explained.

"And so what if he does?" Christine demanded.

"I believe he's concerned about the title, my Love. It's different for nobility."

"It's ridiculous and archaic! Wait til I—"

"Christine, I don't think this is your fight," I ventured, as gently as possible.

"What?"

"I think you might do best in comforting Manon. Surely this is a just a moment's reaction; Raoul will come to adore little Madeleine just as he does Charlotte. It's between the man and his wife."

"This fascination with boy children is not just between Raoul and Manon, Erik! Don't you think there are men all over the world who feel precisely the same way?"

"I don't know. I do know that I'd hate having Raoul and Manon butting in and giving us marital advice," I confessed.

"I'm going to have my say, Erik!" She was spoiling for a fight; Manon's heartache had her steaming, but I had no stomach for it.

I brushed her hair away from the back of her neck and kissed the sweet spot tenderly. "Of course you will, Darling; I just wish you wouldn't."

She humphed, but that was the end of it. Later, she did a fair bit of tossing and turning before she finally dropped off to sleep. At least she was thinking about it. I suspected she'd still do exactly as she pleased in the morning, but for once in her life, she'd actually listened to something I'd said. I felt some sort of marital milestone had been achieved—though I knew better than to imagine that it portended any great changes. After all, Christine was my Diva; I was the luckiest man in the world, and I knew it.

Masson and Miri-ange came back from the beach all aquiver.

"CIRCUS! CIRCUS! Papa, the circus is coming! We saw the strongman on the beach, he gave us a flyer, see?"

They twirled and danced as I perused the flyer. It was a circus coming, sure enough. The flyer promised animals, beautiful girls, death-defying acts, marvels for young and old, magic…and a sideshow.

"We're going to go, Papa! Papa!"

"Papa," Miri-ange tugged on me to be picked up; I nodded and cradled her absently on my hip as I stared at the flyer. The word was searing itself onto my eyes. S-I-D-E-S-H-O-W. There was a stone where my stomach had been.

"PAPA!" Masson screeched.

"Yes, yes, of course, Son."

"Mudzh," whispered Miri-ange.

"Let's go out and see The Smudge now, Son. Sissy wants to see her friend."

"Smudge!" he hollered, crashing out the back door. "We're going to the circus! The circus is coming!"

I set Miri-ange down in the enclosure and dragged myself back to the stoop, still clutching the flyer which screamed THRILLS! CHILLS! It was a lovely, mild afternoon, but there was an icy finger trailing slowly down my spine. Perhaps I was no longer much of a ghost myself, but I still had ghosts aplenty, and they were coming home to roost at the seaside.


	85. Chapter 85

I withdrew. I played with my children and stayed in my music room, leaving our guests to Christine. It's not as if I was sitting in the dark moping; I was actually composing. At dinner, I think I said ten words. Christine made light of it, laughing that she'd taken Reza's advice and learnt to ignore me when I get into one of my black moods for no reason.

I stayed downstairs late. The problem with Christine is she can't let a thing lie if it's bothering her. I didn't matter if I waited til 11, or 1, or 3; somehow she'd hear me tiptoe in—what sort of goddam ghost can't sneak up on a sleeping woman? She'd hear me tiptoe in and pop up wide awake, ready to 'discuss things'. I didn't want to discuss it with her, you see; I couldn't. I was a different person then. No; I wasn't a person at all.

Like all couples, Christine and I had shared stories of our lives before, but there were things which I either glossed over or omitted entirely. She seemed to understand my need to keep things locked away; if she didn't understand, she respected it, and that was good enough.

I was completely at a loss to convey the way that period in my life had marked me. I could put words to it, but the person listening couldn't understand what it was like. Yes, I can tell you that I felt shame—and you would think back on a time you'd made some minor social faux pas, and how awkward it was the next time you met the individual on the street. That is not what I am talking about. I am talking about shame which permeates every facet of your being and convinces you that you don't deserve to live. As I thought about the circus and the sideshow coming, I felt all the shame and worthlessness bubbling up inside me, like a muddy spring. There was no way I could explain it to Christine.

I decided to curl up on the sofa right there in the music room. At some point, I woke up and there was a stunning blonde apparition in a pretty gown standing above me.

"What time is it, Christine?"

"It's about four; why haven't you come to bed?"

"After it got late, I didn't want to wake you."

Christine shoved my legs aside and perched alongside me. She reached for my hand.

"Won't you tell me?" she whispered.

"Tell you what?" I drew away and sat up.

"Erik—" she placed her hand on my shoulder; I shrugged her off.

"Just leave it, Christine, will you?"

"I don't understand," she sighed, folding her hands neatly on her lap.

"Why can't it be what you told Manon and Raoul at dinner? Why can't it just be a black mood?" I demanded.

"Because I know you, Erik. I don't understand why you can't tell me what's happened."

I wanted to scream at her to leave me alone. The struggle to choke those ugly words down made me tremble. Christine waited, her eyes wide and full of love; all she wanted was for me to share my thoughts with her. I wanted to tell her. I tried to; I couldn't make the words come.

"It isn't anything to do with you, Christine. Nothing to do with you or the children. I'm not ill," I confessed; knowing it would not reassure her in the least. "Just give me a little time, and a little room. Can you do this?" I drew her close and pressed my lips to her forehead. She clutched my shirt in both fists.

"I'm frightened."

"Don't be; it's alright. I love you. It's just…painful memories. They come from nowhere sometimes." She searched my eyes.

"But can't you tell me? I—"

"I'm sorry." I shook my head. "I know this hurts you, but I don't want to discuss it. Please understand."

I didn't sleep after she left me. I knew she was weeping two floors above me. At breakfast, she was ready to forgive me, as always, but I was as tense and prickly as I had been the night before. I took myself back to my music room with some coffee.

After about an hour, another cup was placed on top of the piano. Reza settled on the sofa with a smile.

"Thank you."

"I am happy to take Christine and the children to the circus."

"No, Reza. It's my family."

"It's my family, too. Why put yourself through this, my friend? Just the thought of it is destroying you."

"You take them to the theater; that's already enough. I can't turn every unpleasant task over to someone else. I must learn to be a proper husband and father."

"Not all at once you don't," Reza insisted. "Look at how far you've come since Christine came to you. You've held a job again after twenty years. You live in the daylight. Every day, you take your children to the beach, the park—you used to go to the chocolate shop and flower market in Paris. You were even hauled off to prison and managed to survive it. The circus will come again, Erik."

"Thank you, Reza. I feel so helpless against this," I laughed nervously. "I just want to leap up and run; run and never stop. But I don't run anymore; I must put this behind me somehow."

Reza nodded slowly and got to his feet, wincing. He patted my shoulder three times before returning upstairs.

-0-0-0-0-

The circus was setup in a field outside of the city. As soon as we approached, I smelled the dust which had been pounded into the tents over the years. Dust, mud, straw and shit. Then there was the noise; hurdy-gurdies which passed for music; a multitude of screeching children, and the circus people hawking various and sundry.

Miri-ange wiggled and giggled in my arms, and Masson all but yanked Christine's arm from the socket.

"ELEPHANTS! ELEPHANTS!" I followed as Christine was dragged along helplessly. I was actually glad the children were so out-of-control; it distracted Christine from me, and me from myself.

"Masson!" Christine nearly fainted and clutched my arm in horror as her son rushed up and embraced the huge beast's leg. The creature investigated him gently with its trunk. Miri-ange was fascinated with the gigantic ear; she whispered secrets to the grand old lady.

I felt some kinship with the circus creatures; there against their will. I was relaxing into the elephant's warmth and scent when a raucous cry exploded through the din.

"FREAKS!"

I cringed as if dodging a bullet. Several people noticed, but Christine and Masson were not among them. I covered up with Miri-ange with a cuddle and a kiss.

It seemed I could hear the sideshow barker clearly and everything else was muffled; I glanced around me to see if anyone else appeared to notice, but really I knew it was me. He went on about the strongman and bearded woman, the legless man and the monster bride and groom. I fully expected to be dragged away at any moment and fought to keep from getting ill all over the baby.

"Christine," I choked at last, "let's sit down."

"But, Erik, they—"

"Now, Christine," I growled. Mystified, she dragged Masson, protesting, toward the large tent. We paused to visit a monkey along the way. Miri-ange was delighted with it and so I handed her to her mother. I hate the things; they're mean, and I told Christine to look out lest the filthy little beast try to bite the baby. The monkey's keeper insisted, 'Oh, no, not Tin-tin. He loves little girls, don't you?' smiling a mouthful of rotten black teeth. He stared at me a little too long and I ducked into the show tent.

When the show began, it became somewhat easier. I tried to concentrate on the acts and compare them with others I had seen and known. It wasn't difficult to do with my baby on my lap, clapping and bouncing. I kissed and stroked her downy head and felt the tension drain away.

When the show ended, I began to feel the weight lifting from my chest as we exited the tent. In a little while, I d be breathing freely for the first time in two days. Suddenly, Masson began to squeal.

"Sideshow! Sideshow, Mama!"

"Masson, no!" I screamed. Christine, Raoul and Manon all turned and stared at me.

"Son, it's no place for babies," I tried to explain. "Sissy will be frightened."

"Mama take Sissy, then! You take me, Papa!" he jumped up and tugged on my arm.

"No."

"I'll take him," Christine offered, prying his hand from my arm.

"No, Christine, please don't." I didn't want her to see what I'd come from, a cage covered in straw and filth.

"Erik. I want to go," she murmured, squeezing my arm. I nodded mutely and took the baby from her. Raoul ducked alongside her and offered his arm. I could see that he didn't understand what was happening, but I was grateful that he didn't permit Christine to go unescorted.

When they reappeared, I was ashamed to face her; ashamed and afraid. I didn't want to find a change in her eyes. She took my arm, but I took no comfort in that. She seemed subdued all the way home.

-0-0-0-0-

I am ashamed to admit that I considered sleeping in the basement again, out of fear that Christine would call me a filthy animal and reject me. But I decided that if it was to be, the sooner I learned the truth of it, the better.

She climbed into bed beside me and tugged at me, demanding my arm around her. She stroked my brow and kissed my monstrous face. "Oh my precious love, it's a wonder you have any warmth left in your heart for your fellow man. My precious love…" She pressed her nose into my ghastly cheek and wept while I held and soothed her.

-0-0-0-0-

Masson and I were sharing a snack in his lair after his music lesson. Suddenly he turned to me, looking very much like Christine when she was irritated.

"Papa, I do believe Mama's got another baby."

"Yes, she has," I smiled. I didn't see that there should be a problem, since he and Miri-ange had come to love one another dearly. He understood that she would not steal Christine from him, and she followed him like a duckling behind its mother.

"Why would you and God give her _another_ baby?" He was clearly exasperated.

"Well," I stammered, "some people like to have lots of babies…"

"Papa," he sighed, "enough is enough."


	86. Chapter 86

I dreamt I was back in the Opera House; Masson was there, and Miri-ange, but Christine was a skinny little ballet rat, no more than eleven years old. I was working with her on her phrasing, unseen, as I used to be, and feeling frustrated at how much easier things would be if I could only touch her.

For the music, of course; get your mind out of the gutter.

Meanwhile, the children kept wandering off down the corridor and I had to hiss and stomp: "Masson! Get back here! Miri-ange, ah-ah!"

"What is it, Angel?" says Dream Christine.

"Strange echoes in this old building; nothing more, Child." Dream Erik doesn't want Dream Christine to know he's a father. Completely odd, yet utterly sensible in the way dreams are.

Dream Christine resumed singing; I turned toward the children with a dawning horror that Miri-ange was…nowhere to be found.

"Miri-ange! Miri-ange!"

Inexplicably, the familiar darkness of my caverns overwhelmed me, and I realized suddenly that I was falling.

I hit the bedroom floor with a thud and a howl. I glared as dangerously as possible at my moon-faced assailant; she was peering over the edge of the bed at me, oozing malice. Most unlovely, sadly, as on the whole Christine is the most adorable pregnant woman in the world. However, it was August, the baby was due whenever it chose to appear, and she had Had Enough. She'd not been heavily pregnant in the dead of summer yet—which was most fortunate for anyone who had any dealings with her. It was enough to put a man off snuggling during autumn's first chill--almost.

"What have I done to deserve that, I'd like to know!" I stood, groaning; my poor bony hip. "Treacherous harridan," I grumbled, attempting to climb back onto my side of the bed. She was having none of it.

"You know what you've done," she hissed. Somewhere around mid-July, Christine's predicament became entirely my doing; I was the blackest of all fiends.

"Yes; well I recall it, too. The way you screamed and fought me," I snickered. "How you slapped my face and turned me away. All my fault,indeed." I hitched the sheet up and turned my back to her.

I knew she was uncomfortable, and hot, and not sleeping well—but I wasn't sleeping well either; she made damn sure of it. Perhaps it was petty of me, but I was definitely feeling hard done by. Certainly, in the strictest sense, it was my fault, but when had I ever laid an unwelcome hand on her? Never, that's when; I've no death wish. How could it all be my fault?

"Shut up. You're a hateful old goat!"

The bed was churning like a happy baby's bath water, and Christine's huffing and puffing was increasing. I glanced back over my shoulder; she was flailing, a helpless turtle on her back. I slipped out of bed and around to her side; there was no chivalry in it, only self-interest.

"You should be kinder to me, Comtesse, considering that without me you'd be wetting the bed," I cracked, helping my rotund little Venus to her feet. For my trouble, I got my ear boxed.

"Without you I'd be skinny as a stick and sleeping happily." She flounced off in a rolling sort of way.

I remained at my station beside the bed; I was needed to resettle her as comfortably as possible upon her return. While I waited, I considered how changed her silhouette was tonight in the shaft of light from the hallway, how different from the first time I'd seen it. Different, but no less lovely. I wondered if the day would ever come when Christine ceased to be breathtaking in my eyes; I couldn't imagine it.

As I tucked her back in and offered her an additional pillow for between her knees, I smiled. My irritation was gone and I kissed her precious forehead. She threw her arm over my neck, peevish and wanting comfort.

"I'm sorry, Angel. I would take this discomfort from you if I could," I whispered.

"I know you would," she sighed. "I wish it would come, Erik!"

"Close your eyes," I suggested, brushing a curl from her brow. I sang to her and she clutched my hand. In no time, she was asleep.

-0-0-0-0-

Masson's brow dimpled as he watched Christine haul herself up the stairs. She'd come all the way down to my music room to berate me for letting her oversleep. But, where did she have to go that she shouldn't oversleep? Nevermind asking impertinent questions, Erik.

After she'd vanished from sight, my son remained in contemplation.

"She's grumpy," he worried.

"She feels uncomfortable and wants the baby to hurry along," I shrugged mildly. "You know how it feels when you eat way too much? I think it feels like that, only more so."

He nodded, setting his violin aside and crossing his knees identically to the way mine were folded.

"Papa."

"Mm."

"How does the baby get out?"

Oh dear. Actually I think I did rather well. We discussed bodily orifices in a general way; how sound goes into ears, how sound comes out of mouths and food and drink go in.

"And throwup. Throwup goes out," he observed.

"Mm."

Well, he ended fairly satisfied that women have a way to get the baby out and departed with a chocolate. I remained below in the dark and fretted about when he'd be back, asking how the baby gets in there to start with.

Masson was just a bit past five, and in many ways clever well beyond his years—but in others he was just a little boy. It was hard determining the age of the part of him that I was conversing with at a particular time; sometimes I worried about my lack of experience with small people in general, but I suspect none of us parents is ever really prepared, regardless of how much experience we have, to deal with some questions. Before Christine came to me, I felt I had all the time in the world; now, everything was moving very quickly.

-0-0-0-0-

Miri-ange and Masson were settled in bed and I wanted a cognac and a few minutes' adult conversation. Christine had been quiet since supper, so I slipped in to check on her before heading downstairs. She was resting quietly, though not exactly sleeping. Her face betrayed that I was once again persona non grata; another day had passed with no labor pains, so I took the better part of valor and made myself scarce.

I was halfway downstairs when I ran into Silke, on her way up; after me, as it happened. My dreams of a cognac and a bit of ribald banter with Reza were not to be; it seemed a contingent of Perros' good citizenry had come to call. 'A couple of ladies,' Silke put it.

I thanked her in as unvexed a manner as I could muster; not very, under the circumstances. You'd think being an ugly bastard would have its compensations and I could be avoided by the fair sex generally, but no. I had learnt—the hard way, some might say—that it was best that I not entertain these creatures unless they happened to be members of my own dear family, or at least very nearly so. That is to say, Christine, Miri-ange, Manon, and Silke—not Anci, thanks very much; even dear Silke had had her perilous moments. While I'd found them decorative enough from afar, I'd discovered on closer inspection that strange women made me nauseous--if I was lucky. If I was unlucky, it didn't bear thinking about.

I hit the bottom of the stairs just as Reza was trying to make good his escape, thereby to leave me to Those Women's clutches. I caught the blackguard by the arm. "Where the devil are you going? You won't slink off and leave me with those devils!"

He had the nerve to turn his mildest old man's smile on me. "But it's you they've asked for, my friend. The Opera Ghost, Darius said."

"God's teeth!"

"Yes, well; here's that opportunity to brush up on your Phantom's scowl." The fiend tried squirming free, but I held him fast.

"Stop skewering me, Reza; you can't leave me alone! What'll I do?"

"Depends what they want, I should think," the daroga's grin was shameless.

"If I go in there and die of fright, you'll be left with Christine and her belly, and it'll serve you right. You're a heartless old man."

"For heaven's sake, Erik, don't get yourself in such a lather. They're a couple of harmless, perfectly respectable women, they're not about to ravish you in the front parlor."

Easy for him to say; he's not been nearly ravished. "What do they want then?"

"Pull yourself together, man, and find out."

It was my friends from the fountain, the impertinent ones who'd called me the Comtesse de Chagny's paramour. It took awhile for me to recognize them, as the thin one was no longer blue, and the round one was no longer brown. It was as I'd feared; they had designs on me, but not of a romantic nature. They were the President and Treasurer of the Perros-Guirec Amateur Player's Guild, God help us all, and wives of Monsieur le Mayor and Monsieur le Prefect of Police, respectively. They confided in me quite seriously that they felt their little troupe had advanced as far as it could go without benefit of an Experienced Theatrical Personage, and waited, big-eyed as babies on Christmas Eve.

I suspect that preoccupation with my darling bride's overdue confinement could be blamed for my being somewhat slow on the uptake; either that or I'm just soft in the head. I confess it did take several beats for me to realize that I was the Experienced Theatrical Personage to whom they hopefully, breathlessly referred.

"Yes. Well. Ahem, Ladies, I fear I am not the man you seek; I have no formal training, you see, and my experience…working with others…is rather…limited."

Well. Madame thin Prefect was godmother to a young man whose cousin, once removed, was at my theater with her intended the night I burned it down, and so had heard all about it. It seems the young lady was quite transported by my performance before all the trouble ensued. She sounded rather too much like the Creole for my taste, but be that as it may…the young woman's brilliantly-woven tale had been sufficient to convince Madame round Mayor and Madame thin Prefect that I had to be their man.

I was about to refuse them again, more forcefully. My patience, never my most salient characteristic, was in short supply. In the short term, I was overdue for my brandy; in the long term, the last thing I wanted was to play nursemaid to a bunch of bored ladies biding their time between child-bearing and grandmothering.

Then the Old Erik surfaced; the dapper, twisted fellow who used to sit on my shoulder and exhort me to take liberties with Christine, never mind he had no idea what those liberties should consist of. Full of marvelous ideas, the Old Erik. On this occasion, though, I thought he might be onto something when he pointed out that it could be useful to have the Mayor and Prefect kindly disposed toward the Phantom-in-Residence, retired though he may be.

I agreed.

Yes, I know; I never learn.


	87. Chapter 87

Immediately I'd agreed to assist the amateur thespians of Perros, I indulged in a delightful orgy of self-doubt and general panic, in spite of Reza and Christine both proclaiming it an excellent idea. They seemed to share the opinion that I was languishing in Perros, with nothing but Masson's music lessons and the daily tour of the city with the children to occupy my mind.

And so I embarked. In my first official meeting with Madame Leclerq, President, and Madame Lallande, Treasurer, I learned that they'd chosen for their next production nothing less than Romeo and Juliet, heaven help me. We agreed that I would meet the players at their regular meeting Tuesday next to decide casting and the rest.

Of course, that was not to be. I was awakened with a pillow thwack in the early hours of that very Tuesday morning; my darling bride sent me off in search of a midwife. Fortunately, Perros was not experiencing the rush on midwives that Paris had been when Miri-ange was born, so one was duly summoned and I was excused from acting as understudy once again. I was grateful to be able to assume the more traditional role of fretful father; my third child and I'd not yet been permitted the luxury of feeing faint, nauseous and extraneous. Naturally I took to it with relish, with the added bonus of feeling doubly hard done by when neither Reza, Silke nor anyone else in the household sympathized with my extremity. They were all more concerned about Christine, which seemed—and still does—utterly backwards to me. In the first place, being transported with worry over Christine was my job, and I felt that no one could add anything significant to that. She was, after all, my angel; no one could worry more effectively on her behalf. Secondly, she was—well, this probably sounds terribly callous, but she was occupied, you see, what with breathing and squeezing and not squeezing and the odd bit of discomfort here and there. Whereas I had nothing to occupy my mind but worry for her and the baby who was to become Carmen, and so it seems to me still that the poor father is the one who rightly deserves all the sympathy and cool cloths for his feverish brow. I've never been able to persuade anyone to my way of thinking on it; not even Raoul. He feels the whole point of the exercise is to get as drunk as possible, but not falling over drunk, so you can careen in at the proper moment and praise mother and baby lavishly before you pass out. I told him he was a nincompoop; if a man is too drunk, he can't worry properly.

At any rate, Carmen was duly born, and Christine came through it easily. Carmen was a serious, red little thing from the start. She looked the world squarely in the eye, with a miniature version of Christine's dimple over her brow, as if she wished everyone would stop cooing at her and come straight to the point.

Masson was relatively disinterested; he'd been through this girl baby thing before and didn't really see what Carmen would add to the odd menagerie which comprised our family. We had some trouble with Miri-ange, though not the sort you might imagine.

Naturally Miri-ange had overheard us discussing the new baby with Masson, and when Mama began to get big, we pointed out to Miri-ange that the new baby was in Mama's tummy. Miri-ange took to patting Christine's belly very gently and murmuring 'Miri beebee.' Anxious as we were to avoid any jealousy toward the new little one (such as we'd experienced with Masson when Miri-ange made her entrance), we encouraged the little diva in the idea that the baby was indeed as much hers as anyone else's.

It seemed reasonable at the time. Little did we realize that when Miri-ange decided it was her baby, she meant it was HER BABY, and no one else's, thank you very much.

And so when I brought my little diva to meet her new baby sister, she promptly reached out her dimpled hands, latched onto the tiny pink bundle and gave it a snatch that nearly sent the infant sailing across the bedroom. Christine shrieked, mortified; I scrambled and collected the baby diva as Christine re-wrapped Carmen and clutched her tightly to her breast. I caught Miri-ange's hands and tried to explain that we needed to be gentle with Carmen, as we were with the Smudge and all babies. My little diva frowned at me as if to say 'What the devil are you thinking, Erik?' When I attempted to move away from the bed, her little arms and legs began to flail. I recognized this as the windup to a baby diva conniption, so I assured her that we could stay by Mama and the baby, so long as we were circumspect with our hands.

I settled Miri-ange on the bed next to Christine, and again she reached out for the baby.

"Miri beebee," she insisted, tugging on the blanket. She frowned at Christine and looked up at me. Talk to your wife, Papa; perhaps you can make her understand.

"I think Miri would like to hold Carmen on her lap, like a proper big sister, Mama."

Christine's eyes darted nervously. "I don't know, Erik…"

"Miri beebee."

"We'll be right here, Darling, in case Miri needs any help," I offered meaningfully.

A few more seconds saw Christine relent. We placed the baby gingerly in Miri-ange's tiny lap. Christine continued to support the baby's head, to Miri's consternation. She kept trying to shove Christine's hand away. It took some time for us to persuade her that we were merely helping, but that Miri-ange was most definitely the one holding her baby.

Well, that was alright then. Miri settled and began smoothing Carmen's blanket and gown, chatting in the same unintelligible way she did with Smudge. And as with Smudge, the baby diva's powers of concentration were formidable. She sat there and kept up her monologue until her naptime was well overdue. Exhaustion overtook her and she fell asleep sitting up just as she was.

Naturally this afforded Christine the opportunity to panic in a less restrained way. "Erik, she could have killed her!"

"Yes, Darling, it was unfortunate, but it's past, and you see no harm done."

"Unfortunate? It was terrifying! She's not going to let me care for her, I can see it! I'm going to have to fight her for my baby!" Christine's eyes were getting wild; she was headed for post-partum hysterics.

"Darling, let me get you a glass of wine—"

She whacked me. "Don't you patronize me!" Her eyes narrowed to slits the way they always do when she's settled on a culprit. "This is all your fault," she hissed. "I knew no good would come of that goat!"

"For god's sake, Christine, you're exhausted, and I'm very nearly so. Could we please leave this battle til you've recovered your strength and can berate me properly?"

She dissolved in tears then. Much better. I gathered her up as best I could with the two sleeping princesses between us. "Oh, god, Erik. I can't take it, she's such a little diva!"

I bit my tongue; a wise choice, I think. "There, Angel. We'll manage it, you'll see. I rather prefer this to jealousy, don't you?" I rocked her and stroked her back.

"I don't know," she whimpered. "All I know is I'm not having any more babies!"

Ah.

-0-0-0-0-

In the end, I was right: we did manage it after all. But Carmen's debut represented a huge period of adjustment for us. It took about three months before it was sorted out to everyone's satisfaction.

Miri-ange shadowed Christine and Carmen everywhere, every waking moment. Just as Christine had done with me and Miri-ange, Miri managed to convey that she considered Christine utterly incompetent to care for the new baby, never mind she'd given birth to her. We managed—and it was no small feat—to persuade Miri that Mama absolutely had to be permitted to nurse little Carmen, but immediately the baby had had her fill, she had to be turned over to Miri for the burping. If the baby squawked, Miri panicked and tried to snatch her from Christine. If Christine didn't hand the baby over immediately, catastrophe ensued.

Somehow, Miri-ange had become convinced that I was her advocate with Christine in this regard, so she came sobbing to me, tugging my hand and pleading, whereupon I had to leave off whatever I happened to be doing with Masson and go mediate the struggle between the two divas. It is not the sort of position a man wants to find himself in, caught between his wife and his daughter, but Miri-ange was emphatically Papa's Little Diva. Oh, she loved Mama well enough, but as soon as she was old enough to express a preference, it was me she wanted doing for her. And funnily, now that her baby was here, Miri-ange seemed to prefer me doing for Carmen as well, if Miri couldn't do it herself. Somehow, I managed to explain to Miri that bigger hands were best left to changing nappies and bathing the baby, and if I did it, well, that was alright—so long as Miri was nearby to supervise.

The upshot was that Christine was frazzled and I was utterly exhausted. Miri-ange was content, however.

Reza had no sympathy for my latest familial drama, crotchety old bachelor that he was. He chuckled and told me I should have continued to worship Christine from afar. He stopped laughing, though, when he finally saw for himself how Miri was worrying Christine.

"I fear that little lady will put a grey hair on your head in the years to come, Erik," he remarked solemnly.

I nodded. "Indeed. Daroga, how do you suppose such a tiny child comes to be so—"

"She is her mother's daughter, old friend."

It sounds foolish, but it really had not occurred to me before what it portended, having two headstrong women in my life. And if her facial expressions were any indication, Carmen was another one, god help me. I believe I blanched and wobbled.

Reza caught my arm and guided me to the sofa. "Let me get you a cognac."

"Christine is right," I sighed.

"Oh?"

"No more babies."

"We'll just see how long this lasts," Reza muttered.


	88. Chapter 88

When Carmen was a week old, Christine drove me out of the house to meet my doom with the Perros-Guirec Amateur Players' Guild. I felt a cad leaving her completely at Miri-ange's mercy, but I promised her it wouldn't be for long. As a special Big Brother outing, Masson and Christine (the cat) accompanied me. Masson was duly armed with snacks, paper, and pastels to occupy his time.

As we wended our way through the streets to the theater, I felt a fluttering in my stomach akin to the opening night jitters I'd always felt on Christine's behalf, mixed with a strange anticipation--my mind was already turning over staging ideas, and wondering what sort of resources we had for set construction, and lighting, and—I realized I was thrilled to be at it again. I had to talk myself down against a possible crushing disappointment, in case I arrived to find nothing but a dozen fat old women and a couple of musty velvet capes.

The theater was modestly-sized, but it was its own building, so that was a good sign. Masson, Christine and I went round and rapped on the side door as I'd been instructed. I'd barely finished knocking when Madame Lallande flung the door wide, beaming breathlessly as she hustled us inside. She blathered incoherently about how thrilled they were.

"Everyone is here, our best turn-out ever! Well, of course we have you to thank for that! And how are the Comtesse and the new little one?"

Before I could draw breath to answer she was off again.

"Oh dear, I can scarcely imagine what you must think of our dreary little theater, accustomed to the best as you are."

Yes. The best rat-infested dungeon in France. I felt a twinge of panic, wondering what she expected of me, the way she was going on. Then we moved into the theater and thirty-odd pairs of eyes turned on me, glowing as if they were witnessing Christ Transfigured. My panic blossomed.

Madame Leclerq approached solemnly, looking like someone who'd prepared a speech. Which she had.

"Welcome, Monsieur, to our humble theater, which we are honored to place in your more than capable hands. Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to present our new Artistic Director, Monsieur le Fantome, of the Paris Opera."

The assembled players erupted in applause as I turned magenta behind my mask and glanced around the floor, hoping against hope for a trap door to vanish into. It was all too much for Masson. He raced around squealing "Phantom of the Opera! Phantom of the Opera!" It was just the touch the scene needed, the notorious phantom darting after his giggling bear, settling him with paper, pastels and a chocolate coin.

When I turned back to my players, the applause had abated. They were all gazing at me; I realized a speech was expected.

"Madame Leclerq, Madame Lallande, thank you. Thank you all. I am…gratified to see so many here. I look forward to our pleasurable, productive association, and if we are to work together, if I may—" I glanced at my president and treasurer; they nodded. I drew a breath and continued.

"I am not the Phantom."

There were murmurs of dismissal, as if I was just pleading modesty, if you can imagine it.

"No, I am not. That was a lifetime ago, truly," I insisted. "I am just Erik Rouen…Erik. Please."

The silence stretched on, as if no one knew what to do—as if they were disappointed that I was no longer a ravening monster. Then there came a raspy grumble from the back of the theater.

"Oh, for pity's sake, he's just a man, after all!"

The crowd parted and a slight, scrappy little fellow scuttled up to me and caught my hand in an uncommonly powerful grasp.

"Rouen," he nodded, "I am Raine, your property man. I manage this place, too." He offered me a quick wink and turned away. Though it would have taken three and a half of him to make Jules, I thought I saw something of my sensible old bull in him, and it comforted me.

Raine's welcome seemed to jar the others to their senses and introductions were offered all around. (How long would it be til I remembered them all?) We had a handful of young ladies in the troupe—though none so young as a proper Juliet, but our supply of potential Romeos was sadly lacking. The youngest men we had were around Raoul's age, but I was undiscouraged. If I've learned nothing, I hope I've learned to make do with what I have at hand.

We moved on to auditions. I broke things off quickly, however. Some people are naturally better at projecting their voices than others, and so I gathered everyone around for a quick lesson in projection and enunciation. I sent them home to practice, and all would be ready to audition next week. I didn't want to rule someone out of a part just because they didn't have a naturally powerful voice, since it was a thing so easily remedied.

After the rank and file was dismissed, I had a quick tour of the facilities with Raine—all in good order actually--and reviewed the books with Madame Lallande. The little players of Perros actually had a few sous to rub together!

I was in a jubilant mood when I went back to the stage where I'd left Masson happily drawing. He'd abandoned his pastels for better things; sitting in the front row, swinging his feet and regaling two lovely young ladies with tales of lord knows what. I was afraid to know. The young ladies were two of our players, Mademoiselles Fournier and Girard, a pair of nubile blondes who were—at least to look at them—definite front runners for the part of Juliet.

"I apologize, Mademoiselles; my son is an irredeemable ladies' man at the tender age of five, as you've learned."

"Oh no!" they demurred in unison. "Masson is such a darling!" exclaimed Mademoiselle Girard. I suppressed a knowing chuckle. "He was just telling us about his day under the opera with you, and all the magical things you showed him."

Oh god. I smiled, or grimaced, or something. "Come along, Son. We must get back to Mama and your sisters."

"Masson told us about his new baby sister; she must be adorable," cooed Mademoiselle Fournier.

"I would be the most fiendish of fathers if I did not find her so," I admitted. The ladies exchanged a glance; I feared perhaps I was coming across as too much of a doting father, so I gathered up Masson and headed home.

-0-0-0-0-

I listened at the bedroom door; when I heard nothing, I reasoned that Christine and Carmen were napping. As I tiptoed over to the bed, an icy hand gripped my heart; Carmen was nowhere to be seen. I plucked the covers back and peered beneath them: no Carmen.

I left Christine sleeping and dashed into Miri-ange's room. There the sisters lay, together in Miri-ange's bed. Miri was wrapped all around her baby sister; it was quite adorable, actually, but I doubted Christine would have been willing to overlook Miri-ange's absconding with the baby no matter how adorable it was. I scooped up both of my girls, carried them into the bedroom and settled them in bed with Christine.

After a quick snack and wash-up, I tucked Masson into bed and returned to my girls. Christine was awake, feeding Carmen. I settled next to them with a sketch pad. Now that I had seen the physical space, my mind was awhirl. It only took Christine asking, "So, how was it, Angel?" and I was off on a tear. I gabbled on about everything mercilessly, until I realized that my darling had turned over and passed out cold in the middle of my monologue.

Still much too excited to sleep, I took myself and my sketch pad downstairs for a brandy.

"Well, here he is!" Reza smiled. "How was it?"

Realizing I'd just bored Christine comatose, I tried to keep my exuberance at a respectable level while I gave him a cursory rundown. "So," I finished up, "all in all, I think we'll be able to make something of it."

Reza chuckled, gazing at his cognac as it swirled around in his snifter.

"What?"

"You, Erik. You're like Masson on Christmas Eve, you're can barely contain yourself!"

"I'm trying to help some people with their silly little project, Reza, that's all!"

"All right, old friend, whatever you say," he grinned. He patted my shoulder and tottered off to bed.

-0-0-0-0-

The auditions went off without a hitch. Our Juliet turned out to be Mademoiselle Girard, after all. The part of Romeo went to a 34-year-old doctor, Hector Dupre. I met with our wardrobe mistress, Madame Bernard, and Raine, and showed them some of my sketches. So rehearsals began and things got well under way. The first night of rehearsals, I lost Masson briefly. He'd clambered up into the flies. My heart all but leapt out of my mouth when I discovered him up there, giggling and waving at me. Lucky for him Christine wasn't there, or she would have insisted on polishing his bottom. Thus began my career of 'Don't tell Mama what happened, Son, or we'll both be for it.'

-0-0-0-0-

The little amateur players' guild turned into more of a full-time job than the catacombs under the Louvre ever were. In addition to the full-company rehearsals, I had to rehearse the musicians separately, and then there were the regular check-ins with property and set design and costuming…fortunately Madames Leclerq and Lallande acted as management when it came to the fiscal end of things. All I had to do was design and execute the advertising posters; they say to the printing and et cetera. Christine and Reza insisted it had more to do with my obsessive, perfectionist nature than the inability of anyone else in the guild to do their jobs. Well, it was easy for them to say that; it wasn't their reputations on the line.

In addition to the regular rehearsals, it soon became clear that my romantic leads needed additional, personalized shepherding. I suspect that, not being true theater people, it was…uncomfortable, to say the least, for a respectable married father of two to make relatively public love, and vice versa for our wide-eyed, sheltered Juliet. I spent several additional hours with them each week, jointly and separately. Still, there remained the strolls around Perros that my children demanded, and Masson's violin, and baths. So in no time I was staggering in and falling over, too tired to eat, and nearly too tired to sleep.

One Sunday afternoon, Christine appraised me and announced that I'd lost weight, if you can imagine anything so absurd.

I was nonplussed. "Where?" I demanded, scanning my rickety frame.

"What do you mean, where? You're clutching your trousers right now to keep them from falling down!"

"Bah!" I waved her off and dug in a drawer for my braces.

She vanished, but only briefly. When she returned, she was pressing a plate of ham and pickled onions on me. "Erik, eat this."

"I don't have time, Christine, I—"

She was making those eyes at me, the big watery blue ones. There was nothing for it, I plopped down on the bed and ate, washed it down with a nice burgundy.

"Better?" she smiled at last.

"Mm. I hadn't realized how hungry I was. Thank you, Angel."

"Erik…" She began unbuttoning my shirt.

"Christine…"

"Erik, I miss you," she wheedled. More big eyes as she pressed me down on the bed.

"I shall be late, Angel," I warned.

"Mmm, yes, you shall."


	89. Chapter 89

We had a several pieces of work in our little troupe. Madame d'Amboise, for example, was very handy with a paintbrush, but she was the most forgetful person I'd ever seen. We'd discuss something, and by the time she walked across the stage to the backdrop, I could see that she was puzzling over what we'd just agreed upon.

"Oh, um, Monsieur Rouen…"

"The trees, Madame."

"Ah, yes! The trees…um, Monsieur, what about the trees?"

A dear lady, genuinely.

Our Tybalt—who was also our Romeo understudy—Pierre Martin, was a wag. I spotted him immediately for one of those people who develops a morbid fascination with me. Always looking at me, leering almost. Most unsettling; in my feistier days I would have hanged him immediately and saved myself the aggravation. But he had an excellent memory and presence, and a good sense of comedy besides.

One day he sidled up to me as we were locking up for the night. "Soooooo, Eeeeeeriiiiiiik…."

Eeesh. He made me want a bath. "So. Pierre."

"Why ever did you get married, my good man?"

I don't know what I'd expected to come out of the man's mouth, but that was most definitely not it. My eyes were all but shooting out of my mask. "I beg your pardon?"

He moved even closer, confidentially. "Why'd you marry? All the women you must've had—"

"Oh really?"

"Mm. Fascinated with you and all."

Perhaps I've turned into a stuffy old granny. I rather glared at Pierre. "I adore my wife, Monsieur."

"Of course," he smiled, backpedaling slightly. "But why sniff only one flower when you can enjoy the whole bouquet?" He was leering, god help me.

I fear I stared at him for some moments. I was wondering how it was he'd managed to concoct such an inane fantasy. What I found most ironic was that it was one that Christine shared—all that rubbish about how I could have any woman I wanted. Where the devil all those women were for the first half century of my life, I'd've given the world to know. I was nonplussed, and as close to speechless as I'd ever been. Besides, my feet hurt, I was late for baths, and I wanted a brandy.

"Because. I found a flawless rose. Goodnight, Pierre."

-0-0-0-0-

Masson placed his spoon on his plate and wiped his mouth like a proper little man. "Papa."

"Yes, Son?"

"How did you let Mama know that you liked her?"

"I beg your pardon, Son?"

"How did you let Mama know that you wanted to get married?"

Tricky. I didn't long debate the wisdom of telling a precocious five-year-old that I'd kidnapped his mother under the Opera House. Surely that wasn't what was wanted here…but what was?

"I'm sorry, Masson, I don't quite know what you're asking." I glanced at Miri-ange, but she was still completely absorbed in her cereal; good.

"I found a nice lady to marry, but I don't know how to discuss it with her."

_Discuss it with her?_

"Ahem, where did you happen to meet this lady, Son?" I tried to sip my coffee as casually as possible.

"At our theater."

Oh. "And…may I know the name of your intended?"

"Mm; it's Mademoiselle Danielle," he murmured, sipping his cocoa.

Danielle…Danielle…unlike my son, I was not on a first-name basis with the ladies in our troupe. My boy sensed my bafflement.

"Juliet, Papa!" he sighed, exasperated.

Juliet; sweet suffering Christ. Once again my little diva came to my rescue. She slipped from her chair murmuring something about her baby and reached up for a kiss before she toddled upstairs. The few seconds interruption afforded me the opportunity to collect what was left of my wits—not much, I promise you.

"Son, I'm afraid you're much too young to be thinking seriously of marriage."

"Papa, Mama is way newer than you, too." He seemed extremely disappointed to have to be pointing this out to me.

"But, Masson, it's just not possible. No doubt Mademoiselle Danielle is quite fond of you, but I can assure you that she's not thinking of you as a potential husband."

"That's what you know, Papa. She kisses me."

Good thing I was sitting; my knees went to jelly anyway. "That's as may be, Son, but I'm sure it's not that sort of kiss." I prayed I was right about that; with Masson, catnip as he seemed to be to women, who knew?

Finally, I managed to convey to him that the problem was not so much the difference in their ages as that he was, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, still a little boy, (His brow dimpled when I insisted on pointing this out.) and that it would be many years before he needed to be thinking seriously about marriage.

He walked away most unpersuaded, I could see that much.

I took myself down to my music room to panic in relative peace and quiet. I knew we had not laid the matter to rest yet, and that further action was definitely required on my part. But I had no idea what that action should be.

Right; I reviewed my options.

1—send Masson to boarding school. A boys-only boarding school. In Switzerland.

2—accost Mademoiselle Girard and caution her against her innocent attentions to my son.

3—tell Christine.

I decided that option 1 was out; Christine would notice if her firstborn disappeared. Option 2 was a good one, but I preferred to leave that in reserve as a last resort, since it would likely be uncomfortable, not to say embarrassing, for at least one of us. So it seemed I'd have to bring The Mother in on it.

-0-0-0-0-

"It was the most extraordinary thing, Reza. I expected at least a demi-conniption, but there was nothing. Not even a puff of smoke."

I was telling my friend about the extraordinary—and, as it turned out, unnecessary—measures I'd gone to when I told Christine about Masson and his love affair. I'd pulled out all the stops; conscripted Silke and Anci to watch the children, drew a lovely fragrant bath, opened a nice bottle of wine and shampooed Christine's hair. Some time later, when we were, ah, feeling relaxed, I broke the news to her.

"_Oh, Erik, don't be silly!" she laughed._

"_I'm perfectly serious, Darling."_

_She laughed for another minute, until she saw the gloom in my eyes. "Oh, my poor dear, you really are worried about this, aren't you?" She cradled my horrible face in her hands as I nodded, feeling extremely pitiful._

"_Aren't you?" I echoed._

"_No. Not a bit," she smiled tenderly._

"Extraordinary," Reza intoned. "Then what?"

"Then she said, 'Don't worry, dear; I'll see to it.' And that was an end of it; we, ah, moved on to other things."

-0-0-0-0-

The next day, Christine caught me in the hallway and told me it was all settled with Masson.

"Oh?"

"Mm hm."

"What ever did you say to him, Christine?"

"I told him it was impossible, because his bride would want a home of her own, and I couldn't possibly do without his help with the girls just now. He asked me when I thought I'd be able to manage without him, and I said I felt it would be at least five years. So he agreed to wait," she shrugged.

There; simple as you please, Erik. Made me feel a foolish old nelly, wringing my hands and fretting as I had. I considered that perhaps I should turn more of this parenting stuff over to Christine.

-0-0-0-0-

We invited the Chagnys up for Opening Night; the whole household was coming. My three girls looked glorious in matching mother and daughter dresses, teal velvet and pink silk, ribbons in the babies' hair. It was little Carmen's debut and Miri-ange was extremely proud.

I was a wreck. The dress rehearsal had gone smoothly, which as any theater person or professional worrier knows, is a horrible, awful sign. It portended the greatest disaster for the performance. I actually tried to persuade Christine to remain at home with the children, lest the playhouse spontaneously combust, or the roof fall in, or…something.

So I was wanted at the theater in twenty minutes and I was prostrate on the sofa, berating Raoul and Reza unmercifully for not letting me at the brandy.

"You're not my friends. If I die of fright and leave Christine and the children to you, you'll have no one but yourselves to blame. Fiends!"

"Really, Erik, even for you this is a bit much," Raoul complained.

"That's what you know, Pinky! I'm an old man, I've got a fluttery heart! It'll all be on your head when I keel over, and I'll make sure Christine knows the truth of it when I go! Ha--that'll serve you!"

"Erik, what about your players?" Reza reminded me. "Shouldn't you be calming their last minute jitters? Surely everyone will be looking to their illustrious Artistic Director to set the proper tone."

"Gah. A man can't even go in extremis in solitude anymore!"

"Why did you leave your dungeon if you wanted to be left in peace?"

"You! You dragged me from my dungeon! All I wanted to do was—"

"Wallow in abject self-pity—"

"Lie down and die of a broken heart! Have you forgotten? Fiend!"

"And what if he had let you die, Erik?" Raoul chimed in. "What would've become of Christine then, when she came looking for you in four months time?"

"Never mind talking sense to him, my boy. It only makes him testier."

They left me then, and for a moment I thought I was home free, but they'd taken the brandy with them. Fiends. If that wasn't bad enough, they snitched to Christine. She came after me and drove me off to the theater, threatening me with a whipping of the unpleasant kind.

-0-0-0-0-

We came through it wonderfully. There were a few minor crises, all transparent to the audience: torn costumes, misplaced props, momentarily-forgotten lines, but really, it was a terrific success after all.

Now, you may say, you see Erik, you worried yourself silly for nothing.

No. It was only my magical worrying that caused the show to go off without a hitch, just as it brought my wife safely through the deliveries of our children, and made our children healthy and whole besides. The professional worriers among you will understand.

My troupe was tearfully, embarrassingly grateful to me. They dragged me out onstage for the final curtain call—it was nearly the death of me. I supplied the champagne, and had ordered a cake from our favorite bakery for a small backstage celebration before we all headed to the High Street Café for breakfast like proper theater people.

Everyone doted on the babies at the Café, and there were congratulatory toasts all around. Everyone made entirely too much of my contribution. I was embarrassed and touched; I felt rather…loved. Above all that, I was in my glory, because the loveliest girl in France was glowing at me with pride. It would be a late night, to be sure, but I felt reasonably certain of getting lucky, however late we finally got to bed.

-0-0-0-0-

Each performance got better, I think, as the cast got more comfortable with the fact of themselves in front of an audience. We only had four shows a week: Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings, and a Sunday matinee. The first few nights, I accompanied the troupe over to the Café, but by the second weekend, I longed for my cozy home and a brandy with Raoul and Reza.

On our second Saturday, I bid everyone good night at the corner. They headed for the Café and I turned toward home. I had nearly reached the end of the block when something white flashed across my field of vision. Startled as I was, I wondered what a pigeon was doing fluttering about in the dark, but it landed with a slap on the pavement before me.

I bent to retrieve it; a gentleman's white evening glove. I straightened slowly, warily. A dark young man in evening clothes stood glowering at me under the lamplight.

"I beg your pardon; do I know you, Monsieur?" I ventured.

"Will you give me satisfaction?" My assailant demanded.

"I see no reason—"

"Have you any honor?"

God, I prayed he'd back away from the honor thing. I'm less interested in dueling than any man in the world, but if someone insists on calling me out, I must think of my family. What would be left for us in Perros if I refused? Still, I wanted to get to the bottom of it. I was confident I'd never laid eyes on this man; how could I have offended him to this degree? "I fear there has been some mistake—"

"No mistake, Monsieur. You are Erik Rouen, are you not?"

"I am. But—"

"I am Armand deLozier." He said it as if it should mean something to me.

"I am sorry—"

"I am not surprised you don't know my name! I call you out, Monster!" He was trembling with emotion.

"But on what grounds, deLozier?"

"On the grounds of alienation of the affections of my intended, Mademoiselle Danielle Girard!"

"Mademoiselle Girard? Our Juliet?"

"The same!"

I smiled. "No, no. There is some mistake, Monsieur; let me put your mind at ease. I adore my wife. I am the most devoted of husbands. This is someone's idea of a joke—tasteless, to be sure, but you must return to whomever you've heard this from and tell him he's been found out."

"I heard it from the lady herself, Monsieur. She has released me from my obligation!"

Though I heard the words, I still couldn't understand what this had to do with me. Perhaps I was turning obtuse in my old age. I'd never spoken a word to the girl outside of direction that I could recall. It was impossible; absurd.

DeLozier lost his patience with my floundering. "For the last time: will you give me satisfaction?"

The old Erik clawed to the surface: bargain for time, locate a trap door, evolve a plan. I heard myself asking "Will you give me a day?"

"What?" he spat.

"A day? I tell you, I have not trifled with your beloved; there must be some explanation. Will you give me a day to make sense of this? If I cannot, I will send my second to you on the following morning to arrange the terms."

DeLozier debated; clearly he believed I had no honor. I hoped it would not come to a duel; he looked to be a formidable adversary. He met my glowing amber gaze without a flinch. At last he nodded slightly. "This time tomorrow. If I do not hear from your man by eleven in the morning, I will know you for a coward and a scoundrel."

"Very good," I nodded. He spun on his heel and strode away without another word.

-0-0-0-0-

The house was dark and silent when I got in. I didn't wake Reza or Raoul, much as I wanted to. In some ways, I reasoned, it was better to curl up with my little wife and my two baby girls—since Carmen was in the bed, so too was Miri-ange. I would face this latest crisis in the morning with a clear head and some strong coffee.


	90. Chapter 90

I didn't sleep a wink, naturally. But by morning, I'd settled on a fairly plausible explanation for Mademoiselle Girard's behavior. It was all a colossal misunderstanding after all. I reckoned that she'd been telling deLozier about the theater, and the production, and all about the cast and crew and et cetera. Somewhere in all this, I decided she'd mentioned adorable little Masson, and something about how he seemed to be smitten with her, or she gave him little kisses and whatnot. And deLozier, being a regular fellow, had been trying to appear interested in what his little beloved was saying, but after awhile probably he was only half-listening, and wondering whether he himself was going to be getting a kiss anytime in the near future. The way I saw it, somewhere in all that, instead of hearing, 'Masson, Erik Rouen's dear little son', deLozier heard only 'Erik Rouen'.

So that was my explanation. I had only to explain to Mademoiselle Girard that her sweetheart, in a passion that he might be losing her to another man, had mis-heard. (I couldn't tell her that sometimes, even the very best man will permit his mind to wander a bit when his darling is relating the fascinating details of her day. I'd be kicked out of the brotherhood, like Cain cast into the wilderness.) She had only to correct this tiny misunderstanding and the course of true love would once again run smoothly.

I suppose somewhere in the permanently twisted recesses of my mind, this still seemed a rather thin theory, because as soon as we retired to the parlor with our coffee, I related the whole tale to Raoul and Reza. I put it forward as an amusing anecdote, complete with my explanation and proposed resolution, with a chuckle. Imagine my chagrin when Reza sipped his coffee and studied the carpet, and Raoul turned all pink and screwed up his perfect mouth in something resembling a grimace.

"What? What? Raoul! What?"

"I dunno, Erik…"

"You can't tell me you've never gone adrift when Manon's blathering on!"

"Oh, no. No, I have, it's just I didn't do it so soon. Not when I was trying to woo her; a man must pay strict attention then."

"So? Perhaps deLozier isn't so conscientious a suitor as you."

Reza coughed politely. "It is a bit weak, Erik."

"Stop it, Reza! What other explanation is there?"

"Well, you are quite charming, Erik," Raoul offered apologetically.

"Please!"

"No, Manon has even remarked on it. How at first, she wondered how Christine could possibly have—well, you know. But after getting to know you a bit, why, she said she could almost see it."

"Almost! That's a long way from tossing aside a dashing young man for a hopelessly married gargoyle who's never looked at you twice!" I was beginning to feel faint, because it sortof made sense. Even with my mad Creole—who, after all, was mad, so she doesn't really count—and Silke, and Anci—who doesn't really count for other reasons—I couldn't get my mind around it. Except that we'd been working so closely on the play, and the theater is a strange place. All these strong emotions one must churn up in order to create a convincing portrayal…and the way they all lionized me there…I was beginning to fear there might be something to it, even though I genuinely couldn't remember exchanging anything but the most banal pleasantries with the girl, unless we were discussing Romeo and Juliet..

It looked like my visit to Mademoiselle Girard was going to be different than I'd planned; I wanted backup. I asked Raoul to accompany me.

"Juliet, did you say?" His gorgeous grin widened and I caught That Glint in his eye. "Oh yes, my pleasure."

"Never mind."

"What?" Our blonde Romeo was crestfallen.

"What indeed. Anyway, I wasn't thinking. This is likely to be an embarrassing scene for her. It would be best kept as private as possible."

"But, Erik," Reza protested. "What if deLozier should happen upon you, calling on Mademoiselle Girard unaccompanied?"

Ew. "You're right, Reza; it's settled then. It must be you."

Reza nodded. "When do you intend to call on Mademoiselle Girard?"

"As soon as possible; I've only twenty four—well, less than that, even, now."

My old friend got to his feet. "Let me go and make myself presentable, then."

Raoul moved as if to follow Reza from the parlor, but I caught him back and signaled for silence. After I closed the door behind Reza, I turned back to him. When I met his eyes, I saw that they were dark and somber: he knew what I was about.

I opened my hands helplessly. "I want—hope—that there will be a simple resolution of this today." I sighed. "But as I was caught completely unawares, the lady's thoughts are an utter mystery to me. I have no idea what I will find."

I paused, afraid my voice would fail me.

"Raoul, I never dreamed I would be in a position to have anyone—a friend—someone to whom I might oblige myself—"

Raoul colored brightly. It was as difficult for him to hear how I'd come to love him as it was for me to say it. So I left it and pressed on to my object.

"If it should go badly today, I fear I must accept deLozier's challenge," I confessed.

"Erik—" Raoul caught himself and merely nodded. As a gentleman himself, he understood that I could not refuse, regardless of how distasteful it was. "Pray it doesn't come to that."

"Yes. Yes, but if it should, will you be my second? Will you go to deLozier's man and arrange it?"

"Of course, Erik. I'm honored." He caught my hand, overcome.

I chuckled and patted my dear comte's hand. "God preserve you from such an honor." I kissed him and beat a hasty retreat to my dressing room, before I made a weepy mess of myself.

-0-0-0-0-

Mademoiselle Girard's mother received us and sent for her daughter. We renewed our acquaintance of opening night, and the girl returned with the news that Mademoiselle declined, she was feeling indisposed. Madame remarked on the news, as Danielle had been perfectly well at breakfast.

"I beg your pardon, Madame; I would never insist but that there are several matters of some urgency concerning the theater. If I could trouble you to impress upon your daughter that we shall be as brief as possible, I would be most grateful."

Of course Madame understood; she took herself upstairs and I turned to Reza.

"Well, what do you make of that?"

"You've caught her off-guard showing up like this. Doubtless she knows that her gallant swain has had words with you."

"Well, if she's going to have me killed—or force me to run deLozier through—the least she could do is face me and explain herself." I was taking a bit of umbrage with the little baggage.

"Erik, have you forgotten what a tragic and romantic place the world is to a nineteen year old girl?"

"Egad, Reza. Remind me never to leave home again without my hip flask."

Madam duly returned and advised that Danielle would join us ever so briefly, once she had pulled herself together, weak as she was. Right. Meanwhile, we were obliged to take tea with Madame and blather about the theater and the possibility of an early frost. I wriggled and chafed and looked at the clock and thanked God Reza was there to keep the inanities bubbling along.

At long last the little tart glided into view, handkerchief clutched demurely in her pale fist, eyes downcast. She floated to the chaise and all but collapsed (most gracefully) upon it. After Reza's reintroduction, during which the little apparition refused to meet my gaze, we maintained silence until Madame said something about us wanting to get on with 'theater talk' and excused herself.

We waited; Mademoiselle gazed at some distant point off the end of her shoe. Finally, my patience—if such it could be called—was exhausted. Sensing an explosion of some magnitude, Reza placed a steadying hand on my back.

"You know why we've come, Mademoiselle," I said. I admit this was less a question than a gentle accusation.

She commenced wringing her handkerchief. "No…yes! Ohhh, Armand swore he wouldn't seek you out!" She said this last in a bit of pique, as if it makes perfect sense that a girl should cast a gentleman aside and still fully expect that he would comply with her wishes.

Lest our little bird fly before we get to the bottom of things, I donned my most soothing voice. "But he did seek me out, Mademoiselle, I assure you. What else would you expect? He believes that I have pressed my attentions on you for nefarious purposes."

Her irritation returned some color to her cheeks, and her lips pursed in aggravation. "I told him, I told him it was my fault, it was nothing to do with you!"

Suddenly, my heart leapt with hope, for it sounded as if there had been a terrible mistake, and she wasn't smitten with me after all.

"Then you didn't tell your suitor that there was something between you and me?"

She blushed furiously and darted to the window to stare out at nothing. I recognized this move, as it was one of Christine's favorites when we were arguing. "N-no." She sounded unconvincing.

"No?" I echoed.

"Not precisely. I mean, I did say that I was fond of you, but—" she fell to nibbling on her finger and refused to say anything more. I decided I could bear her dissembling no longer.

"See here, Mademoiselle Girard, your inten—former intended has called me out. He expects to hear from me tomorrow morning as to when and where he is to have the honor of killing me—"

She gasped and for the first time turned huge, horrified blue eyes on me. Seeing that I was having an impact, I pressed on.

"—or I, the unfortunate fate of killing him. Yes, Mademoiselle, it is just that serious, and the crime of it is that you and I both know that there is nothing between us. Can you say otherwise?" I demanded. "Can you look at my friend here and say that anything improper has ever passed between us?"

"No, no!" she cried, rushing back to her fainting couch.

"Then tell me," I pleaded. "Why? What is this about?"

"Please, leave me," she sniffled. "I'll tell Armand he mustn't trouble you, only don't make me say. I'm so ashamed!"

Now Reza stepped forward to work his avuncular charm. "There, Child, there's no need for all that. Nothing that is said here will ever be repeated. You have my word as a gentleman. But I beg of you to let my friend return safely to his young family. Let us have an end of this."

She wept for several minutes while my guts churned and I gnashed my teeth silently. Then, as she began to collect herself, Reza produced a fresh handkerchief, murmured some platitudes, and took her little hand in his. She looked up at him and he smiled, Yes, go on Child, and patted her hand encouragingly. And so she began to unburden herself to Uncle Reza.

"When he first came to the theater, I was like everyone, curious and thrilled in a macabre sort of way. But then, hearing his voice, his voice is so lovely," she sighed, "and soon I realized that I never even saw the mask anymore. I thought he was the most graceful, elegant man I had ever beheld."

Oh, brother. I felt myself choking and lurched for my tea.

"His dear little boy attached himself to me—I don't know why—and told me such lovely tales of all the things he does with his Papa. Is there anything more charming than a man who dotes on his children so?"

I thought I was a boring old family man; who knew?

"At first, I thought there might be some way I could attract his attention. I studied my lines and worked on everything he'd told me; I felt certain he would notice me. But on opening night, when I saw him with his wife, the way he looked at her, and his precious little girls, I saw that it was impossible. I knew it was wrong even to think of luring him away." Once again she succumbed to tears and Reza comforted her. In a few minutes she was able to continue.

"But I cannot love Armand as I love Erik. I shall never love anyone as I love Erik! It's the convent for me!" she wailed, tearing herself from Reza's grasp and falling prostrate on the couch.

Call me a cynical old fiend, but all I could think was that it was the performance of a lifetime. As I stared at her, thinking that she should be on the London stage, Reza approached me with an expectant look on his face.

"What?" I demanded.

"Speak with her, Erik."

"What shall I say? 'Don't go to the convent?' She can go to the devil for all the trouble she's caused me," I hissed.

"Erik! You've never loved someone you couldn't have?"

"She doesn't love me any more than a kitten loves a ball of yarn!" I spluttered.

"She thinks she does, man! It's real to her!" Reza glowered at me for several beats. When I still appeared unmoved (and unmoving), he growled, "Get over there!"

To make the proverbial long story short, I managed to extract a promise from the fair Danielle that, for love of me, she would permit Armand to comfort her as she allowed the tincture of time to ease her broken heart. Took a long time; many tears; many tense moments for Erik. Finally, she offered to send for the gallant Armand and call him off me. Reza and I thought it would be best if we beat a hasty escape before her passionate swain made his entrance, after securing a promise from her that she would send a message letting us know that all was well after their meeting.

I was nearly home free, but for some reason, Reza chose to make himself scarce at the very last minute. Out of consideration for the heartbroken young lady, I suspect, so she could bid me farewell in private. I made a mental note to hang him immediately we arrived home.

The moment the little viper saw we were alone, she rolled up the big artillery. "Erik," she breathed, all big blue eyes and quivery lip, clutching my skeletal paw to her chest, "Kiss me, just once. I swear I shall live on it for the rest of my life!" Though I could still appraise the relative delectability of the offering, I confess that I was utterly unmoved. I flirted with the idea of telling Christine about this entire episode once it was safely concluded, just to assure her that I was officially, unequivocally immune to any charms but hers. Either that, or I was officially, unequivocally an old geezer.

In case you're wondering, I didn't kiss the child. Well, strictly speaking, I did: a chaste little buss on her forehead. I assured her I was complimented, and I told her that I hoped she'd think of me fondly in twenty years' time when she'd be in the prime of her life with her family around her, and I'd likely be worm-fodder. Well, I put it more elegantly than that; after all, I have my reputation to think of.

-0-0-0-0-

Dinner was an undigested lump of concrete in my stomach; the 40-year old cognac was turning to gall on my tongue. Raoul and Reza watched helplessly as I paced the parlor, gnawing on the furniture. Eight-thirty in the evening and still I had no word from the hateful little tart. I was past blasphemy and about to go drown myself in the bathtub when we heard the bell. I clattered out to the front door, wild-eyed, and nearly sent Darius sprawling in the process. Tossing an apology over my shoulder, I accepted the note from the messenger and tore it open like a tiger on an antelope. Thank god Raoul was nearby with some presence of mind; he instructed the man to stand by in case a reply was wanted.

_Erik Rouen_

_Monsieur,_

_I hereby withdraw my late challenge and retract any aspersions which I may have cast upon your impeccable character._

_With your permission, I shall call upon you tomorrow at the previously agreed-upon hour to express my gratitude for your forbearance and to offer my hand in sincere friendship. Believe me, Monsieur, to be_

_Your obdt svt, & c,_

_Armand deLozier_

I wept with relief and went upstairs to bathe my babies. I slept like a newborn, and in the morning, accepted deLozier's apology and wished him the best in renewing his suit. Poor fellow; in love with an actress.

Some months later, in the same week that auditions for the next guild production were announced, Christine and I received an invitation to the upcoming nuptials of Danielle Girard and Armand deLozier. So I suppose all's well that ends well, as the Bard himself would say.


	91. Chapter 91

(…Eleven years later…)

"OW! You fiend." I shoved Christine away. After so many years together, we'd arrived at an understanding whereby we could nap in a sunbeam together, but occasionally he still enjoyed sticking his hooks into what little flesh I have. He hissed at me before settling warily alongside.

I dozed for another moment, trying to motivate. At the very least I needed to check my watch…later.

"Papa?" Miri-ange scooted between me and Christine. The cat flicked his tail irritably.

I slid upright and accepted my baby princess from my big princess.

"How does a girl know if a gentleman's attentions are sincere?"

I almost keeled over. I shot a quick glance at Sofie, but she was wholly occupied in fishing chocolate from my pocket. I cleared my throat.

"Well, there are a number of ways for a young lady to gauge a gentleman's sincerity, Angel. But, since you are my daughter, and only fourteen, the answer is: It is impossible to know." I smiled. "Ask me again in, oh, ten years."

"Papa! In ten years I shall be a spinster."

"You'll be a spinster the day after Masson takes Holy Orders. Who is this roué of whom you speak?"

Miri-ange was saved by the charge of the French cavalry down the stairs, at least it sounded like it. It was actually Gustave, Bertrand and Erik running from sudden death at the hands of Carmen and Madeleine. They'd barely scrambled to their feet when they were protesting their innocence. They blanched when Carmen stormed into the conservatory.

"They were in my room again! No excuses this time, Papa! If you don't beat them I'll tell Mama what a mess you make of it whenever she leaves you in charge!" Her mother's daughter, through and through.

"Carmen, darling, I can't beat Bertrand; he's a vicomte, and Erik is…a vicomte's brother."

"You can beat Gustave!" I was pretty sure Gustave was mine. Sometimes I have to think. Gustave…Christine's father's name; yes. I could beat him.

"It wasn't my idea!" Gustave whined.

I creaked to my feet and shifted the cherub onto my aching hip. I checked my watch as Carmen silently demanded action. Two in the afternoon; egad. I handed Sofie over to Carmen.

"I'm sorry, the beating will have to wait; has anyone seen Masson?"

I was halfway upstairs when Masson skittered to a halt on the landing. He was wearing a bed sheet.

"Is Mother home already?" he breathed.

"No; but it is two in the afternoon, and I am expected to rehearse you," I replied drily. "Tell me you didn't really sleep all day."

"No. I've been awake…awhile."

"Ah. In that case, please tell the, ahem, young lady it's time she went home."

"Yes, Papa."

"Of course, you'll see her out without exposing any of the children to your escapades."

"Yes, Papa."

I turned to make my way to the music room. "Oh, and Masson?"

"Yes, Papa." He peered at me over the railing.

"No seconds. I expect you in ten minutes."

He grumbled a final Yes, Papa and scooted back to his damsel du jour.

-0-0-0-0-

Jeanette was practicing when I came into the music room. She is my studious one, and she has an excellent ear. I gave her a kiss and a chocolate.

"Masson is coming to rehearse; you may join us if you like."

She shook her head. "Are we going to the concert tonight?" she asked.

"I would be happy to escort you, Mademoiselle." She nodded and skipped upstairs as her brother clattered down.

"Sorry, Papa."

I give him my best No You're Not look. "Son, why do you insist on bringing these girls here? Have the assignation somewhere at the concert hall, or—"

"I couldn't this time."

"Just let's rehearse. I don't want to hear anymore."

"You won't tell Mother."

"We have this identical conversation every time, Masson. You rely far too heavily on my generous nature."

We did a quick run through, and I was able to release Masson within the hour. "Right, you're free, but please try to keep your trousers on for five hours, hm?"

He bolted away.

"Erik!" Christine glided downstairs surrounded by various offspring, pleading their various cases. Miri-ange felt she should be able to attend the social hour after the concert. Carmen was snitching that they boys had been in her room and I had done nothing about it, and of course Gustave was still protesting that it had been Bertrand and Erik's idea.

My Angel ignored the chicks' squawking as best she could and kissed me hello.

"How goes the crusade today?"

"I had to bring two girls home," she smiled weakly. I groaned. "Erik, the man—their 'protector'—" she spat, "beat them so badly, the younger nearly died last time they tried to escape him."

I nodded. In fairness to Christine, it had been almost two months since she'd brought any prostitutes home. She had an entire reformed cat house in Paris, but sometimes it wasn't possible for the girls to go there. The men often resented losing their meal tickets and went to great lengths to get them back when Christine took them in to show them that another life was possible. I couldn't complain, because in a way this crusade was my fault for mentioning that I wanted to rent a girl once, long ago. I remember the exact conversation; we'd just had a breathtaking reconciliation.

"_Erik…were you really going to buy a woman?"_

"_No, Darling; I was merely going to rent one." That earned me a well-deserved smack._

"_Seriously, Erik."_

"_I am serious. How else would you expect me to ease nature? I don't want to woo anyone; I'm certainly not interested in making love with anyone but you."_

"_Well," she huffed, "I think prostitution is a horrid, evil thing."_

_And well you may do, I thought, until you have a horrid, evil thing in your trousers giving you the devil. All I said was "Hm."_

"_What does that mean?"_

"_Oh no. Don't you go all Women's Rights on me now." I attacked her neck with kisses. She surrendered easily. _

"_We'll discuss it later," she whispered. I chuckled; she always has to get the last word._

That was all it took for her to decide that she was single-handedly responsible for eradicating prostitution in Paris (at least).

Christine read everything ever written about prostitution and began a correspondence with John Stuart Mill while raising the babies. I composed and tutored Masson on violin until he began composing at seven, when we decided we'd been at the beach long enough; Masson needed an orchestra to rehearse with. Raoul gave us a chunk of Chagny to build on. Thus we began something Christine called 'cooperative child-rearing'. The practical result of cooperative child-rearing is that a man can never really be sure which of the children swinging from the chandelier are his. Sometimes all ten were here, sometimes all ten were there. My three-year-old wanders from house to house, almost at will.

-0-0-0-0-

"Wake up, old man. You only got out of bed two hours ago and you're sleeping again."

"I'm resting my eyes in the sun." Reza replied.

"You're such a liar," I chuckled.

"Hm?"

"I SAID, YOU'RE SUCH A LIAR! YOU'RE DEAF AS A POST!" I hollered.

"And you're as ugly as ever."

I plucked his fez off and kissed his bald head.

"What is new, old man?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Well, you know about the two new tarts; the concert was wonderful; Masson had a girl in his room yesterday morning; and Miri-ange thinks she is going to be a spinster."

"It sounds like a normal day," he nodded. "Christine doesn't know about the girl?"

"No, no, no. She would have killed me if I hadn't killed him."

"Miri-ange fears she will be a spinster?"

"She asked me how she can tell if a gentleman is sincere."

"How would you know? Since when have you ever been sincere?"

"Daroga. How many decades have I been putting up with you?"

He thought about it awhile. "Four, almost five, I think," he smiled.

"Why?"

Raoul interrupted our daily curmudgeon-fest."Gentlemen," he beamed.

"Where is our wife?" I asked.

"I haven't seen her today; why?"

"I thought that we might take the ladies into the city this evening."

"Box 5?" Raoul asked.


	92. Chapter 92

"This is a hell of a place to be an old man!" I hollered at no one in particular. I dropped Christine on Reza and limped off to locate the trouble.

Anci had Gustave by the ear; the two Chagny Musketeers were trapped in a corner. Sofie staggered up to me, wailing. Somehow, she experienced a miraculous recovery the moment she located chocolate.

"Papa, it's not my fault!" It never is, Gustave. "She can't come to the creek with us, tell her!"

"I'M A SWIMMING!" roared my little Amazon. She actually has the red hair to go with her temper.

"You don't want to swim with those nasty boys, Pickle; let Papa and Jeanette take you." Pickle agreed that was a much better plan, but there was still the problem of the Three Musketeers. I looked to Anci.

"What happened?"

"She was pulling at them and crying to go to the creek with them; I'm not sure if they knocked her down or she fell."

"She fell! She fell!" All the Musketeers agreed.

Poor Sofie; she was a torment to the boys, all alone at the bottom of the baby ladder. This could have been avoided if Raoul and Manon would have made more of an effort to keep up with Christine and me.

"Alright, boys–I am bringing Jeanette and Sofie down to swim. I trust there will be no problems."

"No problems! YAY!"

I thanked Anci, and Sofie and I went in search of Jeanette.

-0-0-0-0-

Chrsitine cast me a sidelong glance. "What are you looking at?"

"The most beautiful girl…"

"Your eyesight is going," she smiled, setting her book aside. I took the opportunity to lay my head in her rarely-vacant lap. A cool hand on my forehead; I sighed happily. I reached up to touch her lips.

"I remember a girl in a white dress, nervous about her debut. You're just the same."

"If you say so."

"There's no lap I'd rather lie in," I swore.

"You always say the right thing."

"Why is it so quiet this evening? It's frightening," I worried.

Christine did a quick rundown. "Let's see; Miri-ange and Carmen are sleeping over with Charlotte and Madeleine; the Musketeers are camping in the barn. Jeanette and Sofie are asleep…that only leaves your son."

"I saw light under his door when I passed." I prayed that meant he was actually within…alone.

"So you see, we are practically childless," she laughed.

"Sing with me?"

-0-0-0-0-

"Do you know anything about those girls?" Masson asked. I valued our rehearsal time because it gave us a chance to talk. We had not lost our enjoyment of each other's company as he grew up. I would have missed him terribly if we had.

"Let's see: I know they're whores, Son."

"Papa," he groaned, exasperated.

"Forgive me if occasionally behave like a parent. I aspire to more for you."

"What does 'more' mean?"

"More means you could have your choice of any girl in France."

"No I couldn't."

"Nearly enough. You know Mother and Manon have hopes that someday you and Charlotte or Madeleine–"

"Ew, Papa. Liselotte and Mimi are like my sisters," he grimaced.

"I've tried to tell Mama that very thing. Still, when it comes time–which is it not, yet–there are many things you should consider."

"Such as pedigree?" he smirked.

"Similar life experiences, for one. Similar dreams, for another…"

"What about love?"

"Masson. Since when are we discussing love?"

"I think I love Annemarie!" he gasped.

I slammed my music down. "Jesus H Christ, Masson! Are you trying to kill me?"

"Papa, she's sweet and gentle. She just needs someone to take care of her," he insisted.

"I see; she needs a sixteen year old skirt-hound to take care of her," I smiled.

My son looked crushed. I relented; the current conversation was not productive.

"Masson, she is trying to change her life; it is a frightening time for her. I agree that vulnerability can be very attractive, but if you do care for her, it is best you let her make her way with no added complications."

"I could help her!"

"–out of her corset; yes." I patted his shoulder and shoved his forelock out of his eyes. Obnoxious blonde curls; he always needed a haircut. "Son," I sighed. "Go; have a swim. After the concert tonight, take one of your regular girlfriends for a late supper and…whatever. I will distract your Mother somehow. Promise me you'll let the little whore alone."

"You're only saying this because–she's not a whore!" His eyes were so dejected. Suddenly this strapping golden lion was my fat naughty cherub once more.

"If it's love, it will keep," I assured him. "But Masson, if you interfere with any of Mama's girls, I cannot help you. I hope you understand."

As he sprinted upstairs, I wondered if he'd heard a word I'd said. I suppose that's what it means to be his age: no one can tell you anything.

-0-0-0-0-

"So what is this, exactly?" Raoul asked.

"What does it look like?" I stood back to examine the pile of debris. "I promised the Musketeers that I would help with supplies for their fort. I think it's going to be in the pear tree this year."

Raoul winced. "You can't persuade them to build on the ground, can you? Manon is afraid the vicomte will fall on his head."

"So? One needn't be bright to be a comte."

"Who is the new talent?" he grinned.

"You must be kidding. Look: genuine leather for a door flap. Just a couple of girls like all the others, what do you care?"

"I always care, Grandpapa. I'm not dead yet."

"Neither am I, thank you very much. Ask our wife if you don't believe me," I sniffed.

"I'd rather ask you about the new talent. I saw them in the garden yesterday; they still look fairly fresh. What about an introduction?" he grinned.

"It's a cold day in hell when I procure for you, Romeo. Make your own introduction! Why must I continually remind you to pay attention to your wife?"

"I know: go buy her a nice piece of jewelry, and–"

"No: buy me a nice piece of jewelry and I won't snitch. And listen here: leave the little blonde one alone. Masson fancies himself in love; it won't do for his other father to be getting a leg over on his first love."

"Erik–a whore? What's Christine say?"

"Not a thing, and neither will you. She doesn't know about it. I only told you–in strictest confidence–" I raised an eyebrow.

"Of course."

"–so that you'll leave her alone."

"Right. I will. What about the other one, then?"

"What other one?" Christine called. We both jumped out of our skins. She looked like a country princess in a blue and white striped dress, carrying freshly cut roses. She eased between us and got a kiss on each cheek.

"Oh, Manon is the other one." I smiled.

"Really?" she looked at Raoul, who nodded dumbly.

"Mm. We were discussing both of us taking you to bed, and Raoul wanted to know what we'd do about Manon. What do you think, Darling?"

"I think you're drunk," she smiled. She kissed me good naturedly and made for the house.

Raoul finally recovered his powers of speech. "I can't believe you said that to your wife. I could never speak to Manon that way, even in jest."

I shrugged. "She's my dearest friend, Beauty. We have terrific fun. Maybe you'd be a better husband to Manon if you tried harder to be her friend."

-0-0-0-0-

"Papa. PAPA!"

"Carmen, are you trying to kill me? Your Mother will never forgive you. Don't sneak up on an old man when he's dozing and shout at him."

"Is Uncle Reza…alright?" She cast a worried glance at him. Her hollering hadn't budged him a bit.

"Yes. He's just a deaf old…man. You have to shake him to awaken him."

Carmen handed me a thick packet wrapped in brown paper. It was from Gaston. "This came for you."

"Thank you, Dear."

I opened the package. It was a manuscript of some kind, with a note from Gaston.

_Erik, my friend,_

_I pray this finds you and the tribe well. If it is convenient, I will call on you next week. I hope the four of us can make a trip to the coffeehouse together! __Here is something I have been thinking about for some time. I cannot wait to hear what you think._

_Until Thursday next!_

_Gaston_

I turned the page and began to read.


	93. Chapter 93

"Erik? Hello…" I spun around with the rifle in my hands; Manon blanched and wilted against the door jamb. I dropped the gun and scrambled to keep her upright and conscious.

"I'm sorry, my dear; most unchivalrous. Here," I lifted her onto one of the huge trunks. She gathered her skirts and glanced nervously for unseen grime. "It's perfectly immaculate, you needn't worry. Are you alright?" I patted her hand. She was a bit daintier than Christine. Sometimes I felt that one solid 'god damn' would make her keel over. I whipped out the handkerchief; something about handkerchiefs always settles these types right down.

"Oh, yes, thanks." Her eyes fluttered. "It was just—"

"The gun, of course."

"Erik? What are you doing here? Oh, not that it isn't wonderful to see you, but I've never known you to be interested in hunting before." It must be difficult to have to be perfectly polite and try to extract information simultaneously. True, I'd been in Raoul's weapons room twice before, and I'd demonstrated no interest in his stupid guns, stupid dogs, or stupid horses. Neither did I care about any of it now, except I wanted to kill Gaston. I'd already frightened Raoul's hound and hunt man away. He'd snitched to Manon, who had come to see what the madman from next door was up to.

"I just thought I might take up target shooting," I smiled.

"Oh. Mathieu said you seemed a bit grumpy…" she worried.

"Right. Well. I always seem grumpy til you get to know me."

"Is everything alright?" Manon fished.

"Yes, of course, dear; everything's fine." I had just spotted a crossbow that might be a stylish way to finish the fat bastard off. I climbed after it.

"Well, then…I'll…"

I glanced over my shoulder to determine the source of Manon's huffing and puffing. She was trying to dismount the trunk in a ladylike manner. I lifted her down. "Thank you," she smiled, darting off.

I saw she didn't buy it; it was in her eyes. She'd skitter back up to the house and have Raoul down on me in minutes. I had to choose a murder weapon and get out, but the array was baffling. Why would anyone need so many guns, let alone crossbows, longbows?

"Right. What's all this, old man?"

"Raoul. Good. Glad you're here. What can you kill with that over there?" It was big and shiny; what the hell did I know?

"That's for elk, Erik. Why? Are there pests in the vegetable patch?" he deadpanned.

"No; no. Just wondering. I just realized, it's a hell of a thing to get to sixty eight and know absolutely—because I'm going to kill that fat bastard Leroux!" I grabbed the gun from the floor. "Just tell me what goes in here; show me how to work it!"

"The hell I will! What's happened to you?" Raoul looked scared of me for the first time in so many years. "Will you sit? I won't have you dying up here and leaving me to explain to Christine!"

I was too agitated to sit; I paced. "He sent me this manuscript. 'Oh ho, Erik, have a look, I've been thinking about this for a long time.' God dammit!"

"Well, what is it?"

"The goddam Phantom of the Opera, that's what! Yah, some ugly fellow named Erik—mad as a hatter—threatens to blow up the entire fucking Opera House if little Christine doesn't marry him!"

"No. No!" Raoul couldn't stretch his brain to accommodate it. I didn't blame him; I could scarcely believe it myself.

"Oh, yes, and who do you think comes to save her? Huh?"

"M-me?"

"You and Reza—only he never gets a name. So, you see, I'm going to kill him." I began digging in boxes for projectiles that looked like they went with the gun I'd chosen.

"Erik, you can't. Wait." Raoul struggled the gun out of my hands. "You can't do this."

I stared at him dumbly for a moment. "You're right. He's a fat bastard. Give me the elk gun."

Raoul threw his arms around me as I made for it. "No. You can't kill Gaston. We've got to find out what he means by this, Erik. There must be an explanation."

"There is an explanation. He's a goddam parasitic journalist, just like the rest. He weasels his way in, gets your life story and just pukes it out there for the entire world to see. What is he thinking? I'm only just able to go into Paris to watch Masson play, and Gaston would have the mad mob hunting me down again!"

"Erik, let's send for him," Raoul pleaded.

"No. I won't raise a glass with that reptile," I spat.

"Will you let me read the manuscript?"

"Suit yourself," I grumbled.

"Will you wait until I've read it to do anything? Has Christine seen it? Reza?"

"Yes. No. No."

"Good." He patted my shoulder, smiling his most charming smile. "Good. Want a drink?"

-0-0-0-0-

I was fairly calm when I left Raoul with the manuscript, but in the minute it took me to walk home, I found myself going insane again. It had been such a long time since I'd felt homicidal. It was disturbing to me that it was so unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable. I felt a faint prickliness at the start; then I'd get ahead of myself, and analysis of the situation was no longer possible. And now someone was riding up the goddam road, a single horse by the look of the dust. I hate company. Definitely time for another brandy.

It was completely silent in the drawing room; imagine that. Wishing Christine was home, I picked up yesterday's _Epoque _for some mindless distraction. Soon enough, Darius appeared with a card on a tray. I frowned at it, stunned.

"Not for Chagny?" Darius shook his head.

"Etienne, Vicomte de Agrican," I read. "Are you sure—"

"He, ah, is calling for Mademoiselle Mirielle," Darius confessed.

"The hell he is," I flicked the card back onto the tray. "Let the villain in; we'll get this sorted."

Darius hesitated at the door. "I feel Madame would encourage you to remain calm."

"Well, it's a good job that Madame isn't here, then," I grinned viciously. Darius saw it was no use and made his silent escape.

Seconds later, I was smiling and making the usual platitudes to the scoundrel himself. He was taller than I by several inches; very thin. He looked like a sensitive, poetic type, with dark hair and eyes with long, girlish lashes. I guessed he was about twenty.

Mirielle's dashing young swain was gratified to find me at home, so that he could call properly. He was deeply honored to make my acquaintance at last; he had heard so much about me from Mirielle.

"I would be grateful to learn how you come to know my daughter, if we've only just met," I replied.

"We were introduced at Chagny, by the Comte himself. It was last month, at the young vicomte's birthday luncheon."

"Ah."

The boy's transparent face told me he knew it was not going well. He scrambled mentally as well as physically.

"We began discussing music, then learned we'd read some of the same books. Naturally, I was completely charmed in spite of myself. May I say, I admire the progressive way in which you and Madame Rouen are raising your daughters."

Rii-iiight.

"You know she is fourteen years old, Vicomte?"

"I do." He gave me a look rivaling Raoul at his blankest. I decided it was a vicomte thing.

"Right, so…what are we discussing? She is fourteen; you should go." I knew it was rude, but my back was hurting, and it had been a crap day before he ever showed up.

"My mother was married at fifteen, Monsieur; I assure you that my intentions—"

"Good for her. I'm not worried about your intentions, son. You see, I'm just a stonecutter; I don't understand about this infant bride nonsense," I dismissed him with a wave.

"May I at least call on her here?"

"No."

"Why?"

I studied him carefully for some time, trying to discover if he was really that stupid. I decided he was just young and persistent; like Masson without the muscles.

"Brandy? Smoke?" I offered.

He beamed; reckon he though her was getting through. I poured; lit his cigar, sank back into my chair.

"Etienne—may I call you Etienne?"

"Of course!"

"Etienne, you don't know it, but I'm your best friend. I'm offering you a drink and a smoke. I'm telling you nicely to go away and come back in five years or so. I'll tell you just what I told my son about young love: it'll keep. I know it's hard to believe at your age."

"Monsieur—"

"Hush, boy. I've saved your life here today. You haven't met my wife, have you?"

"No…"

"Well, I'm the reasonable one. If you'd tried talking to her about our daughter, she'd annihilate you. So, just finish your smoke and drink, get on your pony, and thank your blessings that she's out crusading today," I suggested.

The boy looked so much like Masson sitting there, looking as if his heart was irrevocably broken. Of course nothing ever goes so smoothly in my life, so just then Miri-ange flew in, glowing and breathless.

"Etienne!"

"Mirielle," he rose slowly. His dejection telegraphed itself to her, and she hesitated, turning toward me. I extended my hand. She's a good girl; she came to me though she'd have preferred not to.

"I was just telling the Vicomte what a pleasure it's been to meet him, and that nothing would delight me more than to receive him again when you're older," I murmured as gently as I could.

"Papa," she moaned.

"Tell him goodbye now, Angeline."

The boy stepped up and kissed Miri-ange's hand. He was handling it well; I almost felt badly for having to be such a father.

"Papa!" Miri-ange pleaded.

"I'm sorry, my darling." Children don't understand that it hurts their parents to do these things, too.

The Vicomte de Agrican bowed and took his leave. Miri-ange glared at me briefly before running away in tears.

Oh, god, I needed Christine. Yesterday, my boy; today, my baby girl. I wasn't ready. How could I ever be ready to give my baby girl away? I went in search of little Sofie. I wanted to hold a baby.


	94. Chapter 94

The house was quiet when we returned from Masson's concert, which dovetailed nicely with my plans. Christine slipped into a dressing gown and I volunteered to brush her hair. Actually, it was about sixty percent hair-brushing, forty percent neck-nibbling.

"What are you doing?"

"Whatever I can." I abandoned the brush in favor of handfuls of Christine.

She spun around and slipped her arms around my neck. "Alright."

"I was thinking about a bath," I suggested.

"Ooooh," she beamed. "Wonderful."

Soon I was soaking in fragrant bubbles with my favorite girl on my lap. "What are you thinking?"

"Oh, that I'm not doing too badly for an old guy." She popped me on the head. She dislikes 'old guy' talk. "What are you thinking?"

Christine sighed and crinkled her brow. "That I need more money, more jobs, and a bigger building. I need more room, Erik; where will I find another building?"

I smiled. "I don't know, Christine. Why don't we pop out of here now and just review your finances?"

"I'm sorry."

"Quite alright, Angel. We really can discuss it if you like."

"No," she insisted firmly. "I want think about something else. Any suggestions?"

"Mm. We had a visit from the Vicomte de Agrican today. He was calling for Miri-ange; unfortunately he got me instead." I reached for the sponge and lathered my angel up.

"Erik, no! What do you mean?"

"I mean he met her at Bertrand's birthday last month, and his mother was married at fifteen, and he admires the way we're raising our daughters." I tossed that last bit in because I could see Christine turning colors already.

"Mother married at fifteen," she muttered. "Nothing but white slavery; I'm dashed if my—" I went for a mouthful of breast, suds and all. I had to salvage the evening. Much irritated splashing ensued.

"Erik! I'm going to box your ears! Why do you tell me something like that and then expect me to play?"

"Poor timing, I guess," I shrugged.

"I should say so! What did he want?"

I sighed. There was no chance for me until I got her settled with this Vicomte thing. Honestly I don't know what I was thinking bringing it up, except I was afraid she'd hear of it from Miri-ange and then I'd be for it.

"Well, the usual, you know; courting, betrothal, wedding."

Christine sat fuming.

"Darling," I whined, "I'm sorry I said anything. I had to tell you because Miri-ange isn't speaking to me, and you'd notice soon enough, but I didn't want it to ruin the evening."

"Of course you didn't," she crooned. "Let's get out."

That was easy, but the difficult part was ahead of me yet. Having an ulterior motive as I did, I knew I'd have to be at my absolute suavest to win the day. One definite benefit of being an old guy is that the youthful selfishness has all but disappeared. I was perfectly happy to spend the evening driving Christine wild. When she was nearly unconscious, I made my move.

"Erik, don't forget…our English friend," she murmured. Damn; not unconscious enough.

I decided to present a counter-offer. "I'll pull out."

She didn't say no, so that was a yes…

"ERIK!" I dodged as quickly as I could, but Christine landed a couple of good whacks before I got clear. "You didn't even try!"

"Sorry." That was a little fib. I tried to snuggle, but she wasn't ready to let me apologize that much.

Christine propped up on an elbow and glared at me. "What's wrong with you?"

Undaunted, I moved in again. "You're stunning, Christine; how did I get so fortunate?" I plowed her over.

"I don't know," she permitted a kiss, grudgingly.

"It'll be alright, Angel, just this once."

"You know it only takes once, you wicked man," she fussed.

"It wouldn't be so horrible to have another beautiful baby," I suggested, squeezing her luscious bottom.

"And where will I find the time for a baby, Erik? I have thirty four women I'm looking after as of this afternoon! I haven't but seven women helping me; no one I can trust to run things if I'm not there. I'm trying to develop two additional training paths for the girls, there's never enough money, and—"

"Forgive me, Christine; I'm only your husband. You remember; family?" I snapped.

"What am I, a brood mare? Haven't you got six children?"

"They'll all be married and gone soon!" I blurted. Next thing I knew, I was blubbering.

"Oh, my poor sweet Angel. Come here." Christine gathered me up and let me pour it all out.

"Miri-ange has a genuine suitor! My baby girl; I was the first person she ever saw in the world. Remember my princess and her Smudge? How she loved that stupid goat. She can't be all grown up already, Christine! And my boy, I don't even recognize him anymore! When I see him, I think, my god, who is this gorgeous broad-shouldered man? I don't want to hold them back; I know they're supposed to leave and make their own lives, but why does it happen so fast?"

"They're not gone yet" Christine soothed. "They're still young. It is scary, I know, but this is our opportunity to begin accustoming ourselves to the idea. Erik, you will always be their father, and they will always love you. You are a wonderful papa. And remember, Carmen and Gustave, Jeanette and Sofie are still here. They still need their Papa as all children do."

I nodded, still feeling pretty damned pitiful.

"Erik, if you want another baby, you don't sneak up on me like that. We discuss it," Christine scolded gently. "You're lucky I'm still weak in the knees or I'd beat you."

-0-0-0-0-

A couple of hours later I heard some ominous thumping. I slid out from under my drooling goddess and went to investigate. Masson's door was ajar. I knocked and peered around the door with trepidation. He was alone, thank god, but he was sprawled on the bed in nothing but his shirt, groaning in obvious pain.

Paternity kicked in and I rushed over to him.

"Masson, Son—" He sat up and grabbed at his ankle. It was ugly: bruised and hugely swollen. I winced and laid light hands on it.

"I had to jump out a window," he confessed.

Suddenly my heart was fluttering in my chest like a startled pigeon. "Well, then it must be broken, Son," I murmured. "I hate to poke and prod at it if I don't have to. Why did you have to jump out a window; do I want to know?"

"Probably not," he admitted. "Her husband came home."

"Right. Well, that explains the interesting outfit," I sighed. I rubbed my forehead. Masson had a gift for giving me a blinding headache in less than five seconds. "I will replace your clothes—and you will reimburse me. It was your blue concert suit, hm?"

He nodded.

"And your new boots, of course."

He nodded again.

"Alright. We'll tell Mama that…you were trying to impress some girl. You were fooling around up in the flies, showing off, you made a stupid move, fell wrong, et cetera."

He nodded, smiling gratefully. "Thanks, Papa. I swear—"

"No; don't. Masson, I want you to understand that I don't make it a habit to lie to your Mother, and I don't recommend lying to the woman you love."

"I know, Papa, you tell me every time."

"But still I find myself in this position!" I snapped. He looked at me with sad fat baby eyes. "No more with the married women, Masson. _Please, _for god's sake. With all the women in Paris…."

"No more," he agreed.

"I do not know how much longer I can cover for you, Son," I cautioned. "We'll discuss this further later; let me get you a doctor."


	95. Chapter 95

Raoul rehearsed me the entire ride into Paris. He'd chosen a relatively quiet establishment so we could converse comfortably with Gaston, but public, so I'd have to be on my best behavior. I was to hold my temper--and my tongue--and let Gaston have his say; Raoul was positive that Gaston had some rational explanation for penning 'The Phantom of the Opera'. I was, too; I believed he had a death wish. Under no circumstances was I to touch Gaston. Raoul insisted he didn't want to have to get into a row in a public place. To me, with my final vestiges of maniacal grandiosity, it seemed my brother the comte was terrified there was still enough fire in the rickety old furnace to do him in; I told him so.

"How dare you lecture me, you little pisser! You think I'm some doddering old fool; well, I can still hang your pretty pink ass from the rafters! Goddammit, I'll kill the both of you! I'm not that decrepit old Persian!"

"Of course you're not; he's a dear old man. You're a cantankerous bastard from the bowels of hell. Just behave yourself, Grandpapa."

We arrived ahead of Gaston. Raoul ordered sherry; I ordered absinthe. Raoul glared at me like a wife at a critical social function. In short order, the fat man appeared. I leapt to my feet and glowered silently. Raoul and Gaston greeted each other warmly. I was pleased to see that the fat man was sweating.

Raoul took charge."Well, Gaston, as you see, Erik is not pleased. I've read the manuscript; Christine and Reza have not."

Gaston nodded, and made the mistake of addressing me directly. "Surely you understand I meant no harm, Erik."

Raoul reached over and patted my hand. "Erik's having a bit of trouble understanding much around this, Gaston. What were you thinking?"

"It's an amazing story, Raoul. I don't know but that you two are too close to it to realize how truly amazing it is. It's about redemption, you see; look at the journey you've taken together; my god! When I look at Erik today, I can scarcely recognize the man I met years ago!" Gaston enthused.

"You'll not recognize yourself either, once I'm through with your face."

"Erik!" Raoul threatened.

Gaston nodded. "I understand, Erik–"

"No, Sir; I don't believe you do," I snapped. "How do you suppose it would feel to have some goddam curiosity seeker knock on your door while your wife and children sleep upstairs? Work that out with your fertile imagination, and let me alone."

"What about if I change the ending?" Gaston offered.

"What about if you go to hell?" My chair clattered to the floor.

"Erik; Erik, wait," Gaston pleaded, but I didn't want to know. I left him and Raoul to sort it out and hired a carriage home, seething the entire way. I really had wanted to hear Gaston's side of it; at least I thought I had when I'd agreed to meet. But actually sitting there in his company, I just couldn't overcome my rage at the invasion Gaston's work represented. It was a protective rage...for Christine, for our children–Raoul's family as well. No; I really couldn't consider Gaston's position. Just thinking about strangers reading those words made me nauseous.

I was still a fretful mess when I arrived home, so I slipped into the parlor for a brandy. I had decided on telling Christine about Gaston's manuscript; talking things through with her would help me make sense of it.

What a remarkable thing perspective is. Thirty minutes earlier I was worried about my life being read all over France, and then I was jolted to reality by the sound of a feminine quarrel. I popped my head out the door, surprised that the shouting was coming from upstairs; surely Anci would not have courted abuse by going into Christine's domain. I tiptoed to the stairs, not overly anxious to enter the fray if it would sort itself out without me. It wasn't Anci and Christine; Christine was shrieking things at Miri-ange that turned my blood to ice. I had to intervene.

I considered another brandy. I considered running like hell, too, but there was nothing for it. I scooted upstairs and gave a quick knock before popping my head in.

Christine flung a dress at me–Miri-ange's. "You deal with her then! I've got nothing to say to the baggage!"

I caught her by the arm as she tore past. "Angel," I soothed.

"Never mind that," she hissed, tossing her head in our daughter's direction. "Ask her where she's been this afternoon! Ask her!"

I turned toward Miri-ange. Her cheek bore the crimson print of her mother's hand.

"I didn't do anything wrong," she intoned coolly.

"She met that man!" Christine spat. "Not even clever enough to take Liselotte into her confidence, that's right! I thought she was next door, until what do you think, but Liselotte comes calling for her here and the truth comes out!"

"Miri-ange," I sighed.

"We were at the botanical gardens," Miri-ange replied, "Just walking. She makes it sound–"

"I don't care where you were! Your father forbade you!" Christine raged. I had to restrain her; she looked like throttling the child.

"There is nothing wrong–"

"Walk the streets then," Christine interrupted her, "But you'll leave my house! If you don't care about this family's name, I do!"

"What name?" Miri-ange snorted. "You're a retired chorus girl!"

"Miri-ange, no!" I cried.

"I'm sorry, Papa," Miri-ange sighed, wilting. "You could have done better."

"Don't say that, Mirielle," I insisted, over her mother's raving. "You don't know anything about it."

"I know plenty; I know she's a hypocrite scolding me for an innocent walk in the gardens!" she sneered.

Fortunately for my daughter I was still hanging onto Christine; I could not remember the last time I wanted to slap someone so much.

"Miri-ange, you'll not find me a very sympathetic daddy if you insult my wife. Please leave my marriage out of this; if you wish to counsel me on the way I've conducted my life, we can discuss it another time. Right now, we're discussing–and your mother is right–that you were told most undeniably that you were not to see M de Agrican again, publicly or otherwise."

"I'm not a child!"

"You are a child; you wouldn't have to mention it otherwise."

"Masson brings girls home, right under your noses, and–"

"Masson is a young man, Angeline, and while his antics may damage his reputation, it is not an issue of nearly the same magnitude as it is for you, as a girl. Unfair, but..."

"I didn't do anything wrong! Why must you think the worst of me?"

"We don't, Miri-ange."

"Mama does!" she accused.

"No, she doesn't."

"No I don't!" Christine echoed. "Miri-ange, you don't realize what people will say about you, riding in the man's carriage, walking out, just the two of you!" Her anger was beginning to soften into the maternal love and concern that had fueled it.

"And I suppose you didn't realize what people would say when you left your husband and took up with —"

"Stop it, stop it!" Christine clapped her hands over her ears. "Do what you want, you little tramp!" She raced from Miri-ange's room, choking back sobs. I needed to go to her, but I needed to finish with our daughter, too. I felt unbearably helpless.

"Miri-ange, what is accomplished by attacking your mother in this way?" I rubbed a hand over my aching eyes.

"I'm only trying to show her, Papa. We did nothing wrong. How can she accuse me when all I did was walk with him? You and Mama–"

"Miri-ange, stop it," I growled. "I told you before, I'm happy to discuss your mother and me at another time if you really think it's any of your business–which I don't. We were both well past fourteen when we made our choices, anyway. One thing parents do is learn from their life experiences. Do you understand? We're just trying to spare you any suffering we can; it's what parents do. It's immaterial whether you agree, immaterial whether you were doing anything wrong. What matters is that I made it clear to you and the Vicomte that you were to see no more of each other. Now I'm going to have to call on him and remind him of that."

Miri-ange trembled, tears running down her cheeks. "You're making a mistake, Papa."

I nodded grimly. "I understand, but I don't see that I have a choice. We love you, Miri-ange, and it's not that we don't trust you."

She shook her head bitterly.

"You say you're in love, hm?"

"Yes!" she cried hotly.

"Well then, you should be able to understand what I'm saying. You claim you're not a child, so let's speak frankly. If you and Etienne continue to meet, I think you will find it difficult for you to prolong your mutual innocence. It's best you remain apart in order to avoid the enticement that a deepening love represents. You are too young, Angeline; I'm sorry. In this, I agree with Mama completely."

"Papa!"

"No," I interrupted, "It is decided." I kissed her precious hand and prayed she wouldn't run off with her vicomte. "Now, goodnight, my little angel. We'll talk again in the morning, alright?" She nodded silently.

"Let me go see to your Mama. I hope you will find a way to mend your rift with her tomorrow. Will you try, for me?"

I waited, but she would not answer me. Finally, I nodded and left her to her thoughts.

Next, I knocked on Masson's door, trying to ignore the whispering and scuttling. Finally, the boy hobbled to the door. I came straight to the point.

"Masson, I need a favor. Has Miri-ange mentioned Etienne, Vicomte de Agrican to you?"

He blanched, worried about betraying his sister's confidence; I waved his hesitation away. He is such a good young man. He can't leave the women alone–my god, if I were he, could I?–but he is a good man in all.

"I know about him, Masson; he called on me the other day. And today, Miri-ange met him at the botanical gardens, after I'd expressly forbidden her to see him again. She's angry with me and Mama, naturally; she doesn't understand. She is too young, Son. I'm sure he's a fine man; he seems decent and sincere, but it's impossible as it stands now."

Masson nodded solemnly.

"I'm hoping you'll be able to speak to her, comfort her," I continued.

"What…would you want me to say to her?"

"I'm not asking you to be my mouthpiece; I just want you to hold her hand and listen. Whatever you can do for her," I sighed.

"I will," he nodded again.

I smiled and leaned a bit closer. "Thanks. Please convey my apologies for the interruption to your nurse. Good night."

I made my way to my bedroom, feeling impossibly old. Christine flew to me, puffy-eyed, and burrowed to safety in my embrace.

"She hates me," she whispered.

"No."

"Erik, she thinks I'm a hypocrite and a…a–"

I shook my head firmly. "There is no bearing, Christine; you were a grown woman. I'll be happy to explain as much to her if she persists in forcing the absurd comparison. Let it go. She's just trying to upset us."

"Well, she's succeeded! Oh, god, Erik; what wild imaginings does she hold about us?"

"Come along," I suggested. "You need a glass of burgundy and a fragrant bathtub soak."

Christine didn't speak until I began shampooing her hair. "How did you leave it tonight?" she asked.

"I told her I'll have to call on her Etienne to remind him of my position. I told her frankly that falling in love militates against sweet strolls among the rosebushes. Also; I popped in on Masson and asked him to be a good brother to her."

Tactical error, bringing Masson up.

"She says Masson has girls in his room, right here at the house!" Christine hissed.

"I'm sorry, my diva; it is true. Only they are rather more women than girls."

"Erik, no!" She splashed in outrage. "You don't permit it!"

"I prefer he conduct his assignations elsewhere, of course; I've told him so. Mostly, he does," I admitted.

"Erik, I don't know what to–"

"Leave it, Christine," I sighed. "He is not a bad child."

"And what if your daughter was in some boy's bed?" she demanded. "You wouldn't expect his parents to–"

"Christine, Masson is not despoiling young virgins; do you see? I wish we could leave off talk of his romantic escapades, for god's sake."

"I hope you remember that when there's a bundle dropped on our doorstep," she warned.

"I will do. Honestly, Angel, I'm much more worried about our princess."

Christine embraced me soapily. "I know you are, Papa." She stroked my hair sympathetically. "What shall we do?"

I shrugged moodily. "Convent school in Brittany?"

"You're not serious."

"No; how are you and the Almighty keeping? Extra prayers, perhaps."


	96. Chapter 96

In retrospect, the Vicomte de Agrican had been a delight; his father the Comte suffered no delusions that a monster's daughter was a suitable prospect for his son. As soon as I beheld the man's reaction to me I understood that we were allies; I could have done no better than a man who wanted his son as far away from my daughter as I did. Still, it was bizarre; I'd forgotten that in the Real World, I was not considered fit human company, and apparently neither were my children. However, I bit my tongue if it meant he'd rein in Etienne.

I went in search of Christine when I returned home, but one day of domestic drama had proved too much for her. She'd returned to her routine and was back in Paris with her girls.

Reza and Christine were dozing in the sun when I invaded.

"Wake up. My life is falling apart and you're sleeping through it," I grumbled.

"I can't stay awake for all your crises; what is it now?"

"I've just been with the Comte de Agrican. We agree our children should not be seeing each other, but to hear him tell it my Miri-ange is a gargoyle. Bastard; I wish I'd brought my rope."

"Brought your rope indeed," he snorted. "I'm more frightened of this geriatric cat."

"No respect, even in my own home."

"You want respect? Get a dog, old friend."

"I wish Raoul could see you thus. He still imagines you're a benign old man."

"So, is it accomplished with Miri-ange?"

"Mm, except she's taken to calling her mother a hypocrite," I worried.

That caught Reza's attention, and he hoisted himself upright. "She called Christine a hypocrite?"

I nodded. "I suppose it's bound to be distressing when one first realizes that parents are people."

"But…she called Christine a hypocrite?" Reza was stuck on the idea.

I shrugged. "Christine was trying to explain about reputation. Reputation, to a fourteen year old girl who was raised by France's most rabid suffragette. I admit sometimes I think Christine's gone right round the bend. So, chip off the old maternal block, Miri-ange suggests that if there ever was a good name to be worried about, Christine did it in by--well, you remember. Now Christine's simply crushed, thinks Miri-ange hates her." Not surprisingly, I discovered my headache had returned. "Mother and daughter screeching at each other. How did I come to be in the middle of this, Daroga?" I sighed.

"I'll explain it all to you when you're older. For now, suffice it to say that when an Opera Ghost and a diva love each other very, very much…"

-0-0-0-0-

I was feeling a right creature when Christine and her tarts finally sashayed in; a better man would have bit his tongue, but I'd already done the tongue biting for the day. Christine glanced around the ruined kitchen as her smile grew stale.

"Erik, what is wrong here?"

I had no time; I was juggling lemonade. "What, am I supposed to fix you supper, too? Get your whores to scrounge a meal!"

"Erik! I beg your–"

"No, I beg your pardon, Madame: my three–no, four--youngest are in bed with fever, likewise Bertrand and Erik next door. Let me by," I snapped.

She scrambled upstairs behind me. "What's happened?"

"I don't know, Christine. Sofie no sooner finished lunch than she brought it back up. Within a couple of hours, Jeanette and the musketeers were sick. Anci is busy with Bilqis and Amani, so there you have it. Half the children are ill, all the little ones, and just before you arrived, Carmen took to bed." I slipped Gustave onto my lap and rocked his damp, limp body.

"Has the doctor been?"

"Been and gone. No help as usual," I complained.

"We have servants," she reminded me.

I glared at her, frazzled. "I can't leave my sick babies to hired help, Christine."

"My ears hurt," Gustave breathed. I settled him back into bed.

"I know just the thing," I whispered against his forehead. "I'll be right back." He nodded weakly.

Christine followed me from the room. "Erik, all I mean to say is it might be best if you stayed clear of them. You're–"

"Someone has to look after them, Christine. Who else is there but me? You? You're too worried about strangers to sit home and care for your own–"

"How can you say that?" she demanded.

"Easy; it's true. The only one you bothered to mother was Masson. Will you get out of my way? I need to see to Gustave."

"I don't have to listen to this. Go on and get yourself sick, you stubborn old jackass," she called, exiting the kitchen.

"Bitch," I mumbled, but not quietly enough. A second later she was thwacking and kicking me. She landed a couple of good stinging blows before I subdued her.

"I don't have time for this, Lady, but you'd better stop, because I'd love to crack you right back."

"You take it back! I'm not a bad mother!" She flailed and sniffled.

"I didn't say you're a bad mother. I said you're an absent mother. Now," I shoved her away, "excuse me."

The illness took a month to run its full course. In a week, the little ones were listless and hollow-eyed, but at least their fevers had broken. Their appetites returned too slowly for my liking, and until they were up and playing again I felt as though I barely slept. We learned that much of France had been affected. Some claimed it was an influenza that preyed on children alone, but I couldn't believe that.

When all was done, Gustave was the only one who was the worse for wear. He couldn't hear anything in his left ear, and he described the right as 'buzzy'. Still, the boy was as cheerful as ever. He wasn't much for having to practice music anyway, so maybe he considered it a gift. Being young boys, his partners in crime shouted at him routinely, and his balance was undamaged so he could still climb into the tree fort. All said, he handled it much better than I.

I dragged him to every specialist in Paris, and they all agreed on two things: 1, they didn't know how much hearing would return to his right ear; 2, likely there would be no improvement to the left. Give it time, they said. Can any of these men possibly be fathers?

Christine and I circled each other like wary tomcats while I made my exhausted way back to a normal schedule of eating proper meals and sleeping in a proper bed. I slipped into bed wordlessly while she was still reading one evening.

"Are you alright?"

I sighed. She set her book aside and snuggled up behind me.

"Christine, I'm sorry–"

"I know; it's past."

I sighed again.

"It's not your fault, it's no one's fault," she reminded me. "You've run yourself and Gustave ragged searching all these long weeks--months. You're tired; rest. He's alright, Erik."

"I can't believe he's alright if he can't hear his mother's voice."

"He will be alright," she squeezed me, "if you let him be so. It is hard on your children when the Black Dog follows you around. Why don't you spend a regular day with him, Erik? No doctors poking, no fretful looks; just be his Papa again. We all need you back."

"I've been--"

"A cave-dweller," she assured me.

My wife was right, I'd been an ogre. I first had to convince poor Gustave that it was not for him to apologize for having fallen ill. Once that was past, we took up archery together. It was great fun, once I made it clear to Gustave that we would not be pointing at anything that could run, slither, crawl, fly, swim or otherwise move away; in short, inanimate targets or nothing.

"Aw, Papa, you're no fun. Don't you even want to try and shoot a fish?"

"A fish?" I gasped, horrified. "Why?"

"You don't want to hunt anything?"

"Ah, no."

"You used to, right? Hunt? Before you got old?"

Lovely. "Actually, no Gustave, I've never been much for killing little creatures," I admitted. My son looked at me as if I'd just admitted to wearing lacy bloomers.

The largest challenge associated with our new hobby was keeping Sofie out of the way. Anything Gustave did was tops on her list, and pointed sticks; well, what self-respecting child will refuse a good pointed stick? She got a hiding the first day out when she bit me; nothing serious, just a general temper tantrum. Even with Sofie's crisis, it was a pleasant afternoon–so naturally something had to foul it up.

At supper, Carmen discovered that we intended to setup a proper archery range; she insisted on being allowed to join in. Carmen fancies herself another Artemis, but Gustave was sure a female with a bow and arrow was against the fundamental order of the universe.

"I don't know, Gustave," Masson mused. "I think it sounds–" Dual death stares from Christine and me reminded him to self-censor–"um, charming."

"I'm not doing it anymore if SHE gets to do it with us," Gustave threatened.

"Perhaps we'll have to do it another time, Carmen," I smiled.

"ME TOO!" Sofie insisted.

"When you're older, Pickle, hm?"

"NO!"

"Sofie." I gave her my best Do You Remember This Afternoon smile.

"Erik, I'm not sure archery is appropriate for girls," Christine worried.

"Mama!" Carmen was no less surprised than I.

"Well, do you want to get big broad shoulders like Masson?" Christine demanded.

"You know, Angel, sometimes I think you're trying to shock me to my eternal reward."

"What does that mean?"

"Just that if I said archery is inappropriate for girls, you'd have my head."

"Forgive me if I don't want my girls growing up to look like farm hands," Christine snipped. She dropped her napkin and excused herself. I winced as I watched her go; since she and Miri-ange had quarreled, Christine was so prickly. Sometimes I had to grovel to assure her that I'd in no way meant to imply she was inconsistent. Likely this evening would be a groveling evening.

Miri-ange, still dying of love, pushed her food around sullenly. "I told you she's a hyp–"

"Thank you; you're excused, Mirielle."

That looked like supper was breaking up; Masson bolted.

"I'm going to the city."

I raised a silent eyebrow to learn when he'd return. He sidled up close and glanced around. "I'm not sure. Definitely I will be at rehearsal tomorrow afternoon," he rushed to add.

"Well, thank you for joining us," I bowed, heading for a smoke.

"This one's–"

"Different," I finished.

"She is," the lion grumbled.

"If she was really different you'd be back by midnight," I called after him.

-0-0-0-0-

"Papa?"

"Miri-ange; come in," I smiled. She'd barely sat when she was crying.

"I still miss Etienne, Papa; you said to give it time, but it hasn't helped!"

"Miri-ange, I know a few months seem like forever, but I was actually speaking…in terms of years," I admitted. Already I had no stomach for this conversation. How could I tell her that all would be well? Had I ever gotten over Christine? Would I ever have? Do parents lie outright to their children?

Likely it was a first infatuation, but what if it wasn't? Doesn't absence make the heart grow fonder? But what could I do if keeping them apart was a bad idea?

"Papa, please if you'd just–"

"Miri-ange, I am powerless in this; you know it. Your Mother and I agree that you're too young, and after all, Etienne's family wants…something different for him." I didn't want to confess to her that Etienne was being actively encouraged to move on, but perhaps it was best if she was divested of false hope.

"Something different?" Her brimming eyes were huge with disbelief.

"They want a noble girl, Miri-ange. You understand; I'm sorry, but I'm no one."

She shook her head wildly. "No, he doesn't want a noble girl!"

"Of course not, but it's different for nobility. They can't choose–"

"He can!" she cried. "Oh, why did you have to ruin everything? Of course they're forbidding him! They probably think I look like you!"


	97. Chapter 97

I didn't make an issue of Miri-ange's outburst. I understood she didn't say it to hurt; I was the last thing on her mind. It's a natural part of youth to be self-absorbed. That was the whole problem between her and Christine, really; Miri-ange was too involved with herself and her feelings to see another perspective. She was raised to think for herself, and now she was doing so.

Christine began to struggle with Carmen, too. It started with the archery incident at supper, but it was inevitable; Carmen had absorbed every word her mother had ever said about equality for women.

Christine tried to shoehorn Carmen into her first real woman's dress to go to a party–normally this was an event surrounded by much pride and excitement–but Carmen had never gotten the message. Carmen wasn't wearing a corset; she couldn't breathe. Carmen didn't care, her friends would be there, and she wanted to be comfortable. Then Christine started talking nonsense about how no young man would ever look at Carmen if she insisted on running out in the sun, practicing archery and riding horses astride. So what, pointed out Carmen, boys notice Miri-ange and you won't let her speak to them anyway. Miri-ange called Carmen a freak; Carmen called Miri-ange a moony goose (what?). I knew they could handle it when they started name-calling; in half an hour they'd be fixing each other's hair and throwing things at Gustave.

I tried to talk to Christine; from a different perspective (mine), it made sense that the girls might see her as inconsistent. It's difficult to speak as a radical one minute and a mother the next, especially if you don't announce your platform by saying, 'Daughter, this is parenthood–not politics.'

"What do you want me to do then, Erik? I can't let them grow up like savages; someone has to worry about them making good marriages and–"

"And they can't make good marriages if they're just genuine people? Didn't you make a good marriage?"

"Don't be silly. How many men like you do you suppose are out there?"

"Let's hope I'm a strictly limited edition," I worried.

"Look at Raoul; as dear as he is, he'd never stand for a woman like me."

True enough. If forced, Raoul will admit that he can no more control what Manon thinks and feels than he can walk on water; we've spoken of it. Still, he wants the _illusion_ of control, and it seems some men do like a woman who pretends a bit. As well, I suspect there are deluded souls out there who actually believe they _do _control their women, but that is another story for another day.

"And yet you want our girls to act, and pretend, and find husbands like Raoul."

"I never said that!" Christine flared.

"No, you didn't, but it's what you mean when you dress them up and let them go over there for parties with admonitions about keeping their voices down, not discussing anything controversial and only nibbling at food. I'm not criticizing you, Angel; all I'm saying is that sometimes you act like any other mother, and sometimes you act like Suzy B. How do you expect the girls to sort it all out when you haven't sorted it out yourself?"

"They're not mutually exclusive, Erik."

"If you say so."

"I think we began arguing about child rearing when Masson was one year old, and we've never stopped. I, for one, am tired of it," she grumbled. "What are you doing?"

"Holding your hand," I smiled. "I like holding Christine's hand."

She sighed and pressed my bony hand to her cheek. "Oh, Erik; where will our girls ever find men like their papa?"

"Ew," I grimaced. "It sounds dreadful when you phrase it thus."

"You know what I mean," she scolded.

"I think you should have faith in them and let them be themselves."

"That might be well and good for Miri-ange, but Carmen? She's an Amazon–if I left her to her own devices, she'd stride into the party in riding culottes, bow and arrow over her shoulder!"

"She's just twelve, Darling. She's…unconventional. Quirky. She'll sweep some unsuspecting swain off his feet. You'll see," I mused happily.

"Scandalous!" she huffed.

"Darling. Do you hear yourself? Scandalous is walking out on your marriage and taking up with the Opera Ghost without a second thought. Scandalous is organizing Women's Rights meetings throughout the city."

"I knew what I was doing," she stuck her chin out.

"No you didn't. You took the bit in your mouth and ran," I smiled.

"I knew I wouldn't end abandoned on the street somewhere," she countered. "I always knew you'd protect me. I want them to be safe, Erik, is that so wrong?"

"Of course not; I want that too. But how will they ever be safe if they can't be happy? Christine, you know there is no safety in being untrue to yourself."

"It all sounds so simple when you say it. You don't worry about how they'll turn out; you're a marvel. You fret over every little sniffle, but you can't be bothered about their futures," she stated, baffled.

"Their futures are theirs, Angel. So long as they are healthy and happy."

Christine studied me silently. Finally, "You really are a marvel; how did I get so lucky?"

"I have no idea," I intoned gravely.

"So, Miri-ange?" she asked.

"I don't know either, Angel. Doesn't she have other admirers sniffing around at these parties?"

"She does, but she's not interested, Erik. She's as stubborn as you." I nuzzled her neck; she giggled.

"I'm a poor example, I'm afraid. I held out for the only girl in the world," I whispered.

-0-0-0-0-

As soon as we were alone, Masson blurted it out.

"Papa, I need to tell you something…not very good."

I turned from the piano, nodding. "Put your violin down then; let's sit." I indicated the sofa.

He was pale, brushing his mane from his eyes. I waited while he stared unseeing, trying to decide what to say, how to say it. "I can't; never mind," he shook his head. I caught Masson's arm as he started to go.

"Whom will you tell if not me?" I asked gently. "You need help."

"Not me, it's not me," he insisted.

"Come along now; let's speak as men, Masson. It's a girl, isn't it?" I frowned.

He nodded.

"Well then, it's damned cavalier of you to say that it's nothing to do with you."

"No, Papa, it mean it; it's not me," he swore.

"Alright then; I'm listening." I gestured again for him to sit.

"Papa, Miri-ange sees Etienne. They meet at the concert hall sometimes when I perform." He paused, clearly wanting me to say something. I simply nodded.

"He's a good man, Papa. I like him, and he's really devoted to her," he rushed to tell me.

"I liked him just fine when we met, Masson; your sister is just too young. If he'd come along a few years from now, I'd have no problem with him, but as it stands now, it's impossible."

Masson sighed and ran his hands through his hair again.

"How long have they been meeting? Do you know?"

He shrugged. "Weeks."

"What is it that makes you tell me about this now, Son?"

"I'm afraid they're going to run off!" Fat baby eyes, full of pain. "She hasn't said anything directly, but I heard them whispering about 'soon'. I don't know; it's just a feeling I have."

"You've struggled with your decision to tell me of your suspicions, Masson. Thank you."


	98. Chapter 98

I might have sat there for hours or days after Masson left me, my mind darting from one fragmented idea to the next like a fish in a rain-swollen stream.

Ignore it?  
Tell Christine?  
Confront Miri-ange? And say what? I know you're planning to elope? I forbid you seeing him (again)?  
Send her to a convent school?  
Kill him?  
Send for the police?

Silke startled me back to the real world. Shaking my shoulder, she sounded more irritated than I'd ever heard her.

"…won't you LISten?" She demanded.

"What, Woman, for God's sake?"

"He wants you. He's sick," she grumbled.

"Reza?" My heart stumbled.

"Who else?" she replied, scuffing briskly upstairs.

Reza's room smelled of camphor, and he looked a bit ashen, but except for sitting up in his bed, he was the same: same grin, same glass of coffee. Still, I'd never seen him in bed before, never seen him with so much as a sniffle, and I felt seconds away from making a fool of myself. If he turned out to really be ill, I was sure I would.

"Finally you summon me to your bed, and it smells like a hospital in here. Your technique needs work, Old Man." I tried to joke, but I gripped his proffered hand too tightly, and he saw the panic in my eyes.

"It's just a little something in the chest," he dismissed, pressing a scribbled list into my hand. "I need a few things, but I don't know how they're called except in Persian. I don't know if it's the chemist or herbalist–"

Silke grumbled something unintelligible, fussing around across the room.

"She doesn't approve of self-doctoring," Reza admitted sheepishly. His chuckle ended in a nasty rattling cough. Silke was by his side instantly, arranging pillows. She shoved me aside as I proffered a glass of water.

"He doesn't need you! He needs a proper doctor," she insisted. I stared, wondering when she'd gotten so damned mouthy.

Reza's coughing subsided. "My friend will see to it; we've seen each other through many a challenge. It's nothing, you'll see. Run along now." Silke took much persuasion; obviously she felt Reza and I were in league to deceive her, but finally she retreated to the other side of the room.

I glanced at the list and nodded. "I can translate. She should be able to get it all at the chemist."

"I'm not going," Silke declared flatly.

"Now see here, what the devil have I done to twist your knickers?" I snarled. I should have realized we were both worried sick over the old man, but…I guess I'm stupider than I look.

"I'm not going!" Silke repeated, to Reza this time.

In a couple of hours, I had Reza set with some sickly sweet-smelling tea and a chest poultice.

"Better," I noted. He nodded, squeezing my hand in thanks.

"I'll come take supper with you if you like," I offered from the door.

"I hope I'll be able to come to the table, it's not as bad as all that."

I'd only just disappeared over the threshold when I heard Silke begin her campaign. "No, you won't! Please stay in bed, promise me."

I heard the smile in Reza's voice when he replied. "I won't go if it makes you feel better. Don't fret, Farideh." Farideh? 'Delightful?' There was something for me to puzzle over in my copious spare time.

-0-0-0-0-

"God. You look like hell," Raoul blurted.

"Screw you and the horse you rode in on." I dropped my bones into his oversized wing chair. The buttery-soft leather was cool against my cheek; its fragrance enveloped me like a lover. "I adore this chair; you don't deserve this chair. I'm taking it home with me."

"Wait, I've heard this before. Yes; last time, you took my wife." He handed me a brandy and proffered the humidor. "So: grumpy and self pitying; to what do I owe this double pleasure?"

"Reza is in bed–_in bed,_ mind you–with a chest catarrh. I've never known him to be sick a day. I don't know what I'll do–" my voice broke.

Raoul crouched smiling, and tried to gently shake some confidence into me. "There; don't worry, you said yourself it's nothing but a catarrh."

I told Raoul what I'd done for Reza and allowed him to charm me with his infuriating optimism. We smoked and drank in silence. Finally, I puffed out a huge sigh.

"There's a blizzard in hell, my boy," I confessed, holding up my glass. "I need to ask your advice–one father to another."

"Oh?" The comte makes a fine server; he jumped to his feet to give me a refill.

"What would you do if someone came calling for Liselotte? Courting, I mean."

Raoul sat, considering. When he raised his eyebrow, I noted a place where he'd have a wrinkle in his forehead someday–if there is a God.

"She's nearly fifteen, Erik. It's a fine family," he shrugged.

"You would say that, you're goddamned nobility yourself, never done a day's work–"

"What's that got to do with anything? You don't think I'd've introduced him to Miri-ange if he was a reprobate, do you?"

"Why didn't you introduce him to your own little girl?" I hollered.

"Because he didn't want to meet my little girl!" He hollered back. We were up in each other's faces, like years ago in the front hall.

"Shit, this is getting untidy," I realized, retreating to the cuddly chair. "Damn, Raoul, you'd really hand her over to some man at such a tender age? After all the grief you gave me over Anci?"

"You could be Anci's grandpapa, you dolt!"

"But I wasn't, was I?"

"This is productive," he grumbled.

"I shouldn't have come." I stood. "I just…what sort of family is it, really? Is he going to take mistresses before they're married a year? Is he going to bring diseases home?"

"It's a family like any other, Erik," he shrugged. "I understand they've not been pleased with his choice–nothing against our Miri-ange, you understand–"

"Of course."

There seemed nothing more to say, so we smiled and embraced. Suddenly I had to tear my shirt collar open; I was choking. "Christ, how do I give my blessing, Raoul, even if I want to? Christine will hand me my balls."

"Mm."

"Hadn't thought of that, had you?" I cracked.

"Well…it might do something interesting for your voice…"

-0-0-0-0-

I nipped back to check on Reza. Silke was still hovering, but she graciously permitted me to pop my head in. The old man was dozing with his prayer beads.

"He looks comfortable," I whispered. Silke nodded. "Right, I'll check later."

"No; he'll be fine tonight. Stop by in the morning." In other words, leave us alone, Erik.

Right.

-0-0-0-0-

I spied a pale green dress darting by and hollered. "Commere, Christine. I need to talk to you!"

"Pa-Paa-aaah."

"Papa's right here, Pickle," I spluttered, a mouthful of soapsuds for my trouble. Sofie does not share her bathtime with anyone; being the baby has its compensations.

Christine doled out the kisses. "What's up?"

"Ask me later; you look delectable," I purred.

"You need to stop," she laughed.

"What's funny?" I feigned umbrage. "That was an invitation to bliss!" I grabbed a towel and plucked the Pickle from the tub.

"You said you needed to _talk_." She followed me to Jeanette's room.

"Dry and dress, please? I need to talk to Mama." Jeanette nodded. "There's my dear girl, thanks." I caught Christine's hand and led her to our room. Once inside, I started misbehaving.

Christine sighed. "How many hands do you have, my stars!"

"How many would you like me to have? I can't help it; you look so appetizing in this dress."

"Then leave it on me til we talk," she suggested, smiling. We sat on the bed and she waited for me to begin.

"Masson says that Miri-ange has been seeing the vicomte at the concert hall. He's confided in me that he's afraid they're planning to elope." Christine's lips twitched almost imperceptibly.

"What else can we do?" She cried. "You've forbidden them."

I nodded. "And it's not working; otherwise we wouldn't be talking about it now."

"Oh, God, Erik. Any way we turn, it seems we lose her."

"I think we've been approaching it the wrong way, Angel." I squeezed her hand. "If we imprison her, we surely will lose her. We must let her go."

"Erik! No, no, no!" She tore away from me. "What are you suggesting? You want to give her to that boy? Fourteen years and you want her to…to…you can't! She's not ready, Erik! Please!"

"Wait," I pursued her to the window. "I don't want to give her to anyone. I merely want to permit him to call, so they can be supervised, hm? Let him call here, let's welcome him."

"No sleepovers like her brother!" Christine hissed.

"Of course not, what do you take me for, Christine! I can't believe you'd suggest such a thing!"

"I can't believe you'd suggest that we welcome this pig," she spat.

"We don't know he's a pig. Masson didn't say anything about Etienne pressing his advantage. I'm confident she's still a good girl."

"And I'm confident he's a healthy young man, Erik. He's going to be pushing to marry her in no time; what then?" Christine demanded, utterly unconvinced.

"Yes, well, by then, we'll all be great friends, and I'll be able to say, Son, you know how fond I am of you; let's just give it another few months. See?"

"You're awfully sure of yourself," she grumbled.

"Christine, if they have our blessing--say our worst fears come to fruition–she still feels the way is open to return home. If she runs away and things go badly, what will she do if she feels we've turned our backs on her? In my heart, I know that the only way to keep her is to give her up." I touched my forehead to hers. "Remember?"

-0-0-0-0-

"Miri-ange? May I speak with you please?"

She was sitting up in bed reading. My precious Miracle Angel; she dropped into the world and landed in my hands, and now, somehow, I was supposed to place her in the hands of a stranger. God help me. I smiled as genuinely as I could and sat on the bed. Kissing her hand, I realized with a start that other lips had been there. I knew I had to make it fast or I'd be a mess.

"You miss your vicomte still, hm?"

Understandably, Miri-ange was reluctant to speak.

"Do you suppose that he would accept an invitation to dine with us?"

"Papa? Papa!" she squealed, bowling me over.


	99. Chapter 99

"Look at you, permitted back in the conservatory!" I pressed a cup of coffee on Reza and kissed his forehead. He smiled, pleased to be holding court in his favorite sunbeam again.

"Thank you, my friend."

"Daroga, you mustn't frighten me that way again."

"Don't be ridiculous; you'll not be rid of me so easily." I was relieved to see that his chuckle did not end in a spate of hacking. "Erik, I want you to keep hold of this for me; will you?" He fished into his pocket and handed me an envelope.

I opened the pages and got no further than the first line.

"'Last Will and Testament'? What the hell is this?" I squeaked. "You just said–"

"I'm not going anywhere, I told you. But no one lasts forever. I want to make sure things are taken care of." He picked invisible lint off his smoking jacket self-consciously.

"You mean, you want to make sure Silke's taken care of, you clever dog. All these years with your nose in my business, and you refuse to take me into your confidence when you come to an arrangement of your own. How long has this been going on, exactly?"

"I don't believe I'll answer you while you're wearing that wolfish grin. At my age–"

"You're not dead," I reminded him.

"It's not as it appears," he insisted lamely.

"Oh? It appears as though Farideh's in love. My, that's a different color for you." My friend was too embarrassed to speak, and suddenly I felt like a fiend. "Here, Daroga, don't you see I'm happy for you? No man wants his friend to be alone year after year. Tell me how this came to be, won't you?"

"It happened naturally enough, I suppose," he shrugged. "Everyone else in the house was coupled and worried about their young families; we began conversing, and discovered we made good companions."

"And?" He wasn't about to get off so easily.

"And when we were returning to Paris, I offered to help her find another position if she wanted to remain in Perros. She seemed to enjoy the seaside; we'd discussed it. And it happened to come out that she didn't want to remain, and that I rather didn't want her to."

"Nine years? You've been sneaking around for_ nine years?_ What the hell for?"

"We weren't 'sneaking around', thank you very much. Masson doesn't even sneak around in this house," he huffed. "What would you have preferred, for me to take an ad in _L'Epoque?_" he groused.

"See here, Reza, you've no excuse for being grumpy; you're getting laid."

-0-0-0-0-

My son didn't come down for rehearsal. Normally, regardless of the lady's charms, he did not miss rehearsal; he knew I wouldn't stand for it. So naturally, I was furious that I was forced to climb the stairs and drag him out of bed; too goddam many stairs in the house for an old ghost.

"Masson! Masson, you've got rehearsal!"

"Go away! I'm not rehearsing!"

"What are you talking about? Masson? Let me in!"

"It's open! Let yourself in!"

He was curled up with Christine, his face buried in his old friend's fur. I rushed to his side. Will there ever come a day that my heart doesn't leap to my throat when I see that my children are suffering?

"Son?" I touched his shoulder tentatively. He looked up at me, his face telegraphing pain I was powerless to stop.

"I should have listened to you!" He rubbed at his puffy eyes fiercely. "You were right, she's nothing but a whore! Why didn't I listen to you Papa?"

I sat quietly while he went through another crying jag. Finally, I asked him if he wanted to talk. He shook his head no, but the words came pouring out.

"I don't know what I did wrong. She said it wasn't me, it was her, but I must have done something!" Masson looked at me as if I had some answer for him. "Everything was fine–everything was wonderful! And then all of a sudden, she started making excuses why she couldn't meet me. I tried to be patient, honest I did." (How patient could a sixteen-year-old in love be?)

"But it was obvious she was avoiding me. When I confronted her, she said I'm just too much, I overwhelm her. What does that mean, Papa? What does it mean?" he demanded, clearly baffled.

Before I had the opportunity to answer, he started in again. "She loves me, I know it! I know she loves me every bit as much as I love her! She's always telling me how good I am to her, that she doesn't know what she's done to deserve me being so sweet. Papa, how do I get her back?"

I paused in case Masson was still not ready for me to speak, but he was. Poor boy, asking me for advice about women, there's a laugh. But this 'how do I get her back' stuff; unfortunately, I did know a little about that.

"I'm sorry, Masson; you're not going to like hearing this, but you can't get someone back who doesn't want to be gotten back. You know I had to let your Mother go with Raoul. It was my good fortune that she came back, but it had nothing to do with me, do you see? It was all her decision; I had to let her go."

"But she came back!" Masson insisted.

I'd known even before I spoke that he would hang all his hopes on the improbably happy ending his parents had.

"No, Son, I told you, you can't place any stock in that. What's happened between your mother and me is bizarre enough to be statistically impossible; please don't–"

"I know I can get her back!"

Oh, Christ. I took a deep breath and tried another tack.

"Masson, I want to talk to you as a man, now. In all of these encounters you've had, I'm sure that sometimes you've just been having fun, hm? Just having a good time with a pretty girl?"

He was hesitant to respond.

"Alright, then, let me say this: I've been with a woman when it's been nothing but a good time. We liked each other, but there was no great love affair. And it's…" Christine would kill me for this, I thought, "…alright if that's all there is to it, so long as the people involved are honest with themselves and each other. The problem is, what if I'm having fun and she's making love?"

I waited for the idea to penetrate.

"Son, what if Annemarie was having fun?" I suggested, as gently as I could.

"No!" My young lion leapt to his feet, furious at the implication. "No, get out! You don't know anything about her!"

I raised my hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Hold on, Masson; I'm not casting aspersions on your darling. It doesn't make her a bad woman; you know it's not just men that enjoy bed sport."

He shook his head in vehement denial. "No; she loves me."

"Alright, Son," I nodded, "Forget I said it, then." He lay down and wept again. I didn't know what else to do, other than just be there, so I stroked his mane and sang to him. Eventually, he dropped off to sleep. I penned him a note that I was available any time he wanted an ear and left him until it was time to ride into Paris for the concert. I was absolutely convinced that keeping to his routine was the best thing for him, just as it had been for me all those years ago when Reza had taken me in hand and saved my life.

I slipped out to the back garden unseen and hid under the arbor. How I longed to take Masson's pain away. I'd been triple his age when I lost Christine; I prayed that youth would add some resilience to my son's tender heart. The thing is, sitting there, I felt my own heart grow heavy and begin to ache. I was glad of it; it made me feel that perhaps there was something I might do for my boy after all. I spoke to Christine's God. I felt like a right jackass, but paternity had stripped me of my false pride.

"I know You don't think much of me…but I've not asked You for much, other than healthy babies and safety for Christine. Oh, and the time Masson ran off; I know I still owe for that. There's probably some Divine prohibition involved, but if there is any way I can take this heartbreak from him…any way I could bear his pain–well, but You're omniscient, so I suppose there's nothing to say. Er, thank You…"

I sat awhile longer, unable to concentrate on anything in particular. Right, you've wasted enough time out here, Erik; go inside and compose something, you lazy git. I drew a deep breath and felt a piercing in my chest; good, maybe the Almighty's coming through, I thought. I dragged myself back to the house and fiddled at the piano, but I was just too preoccupied with Masson's trouble to accomplish much; at least that's what I attributed it to. Feeling exceptionally old and tired, I decided to have a lie down on the sofa. I stretched out and drifted into memories of Masson as my chunky toddler; I could even feel his familiar weight on my chest, and almost smelled his sweet baby hair again.


	100. Chapter 100

I couldn't sleep. I dreaded broaching the subject again, but she had to listen to reason eventually.

"Christine…"

"Mm." She drew my arm tighter around her.

"I've been thinking." She purred when I kissed her neck. "If something should happen, you shouldn't be alone. You should find someone who–"

"You're ill! What's wrong with you? Erik!" She scrambled away.

"No I'm not, Angel, I swear it."

"LIAR!"

"Hush, Christine, for God's sake; you'll wake the entire house! Come back here." Reluctantly, she allowed me to gather her up.

"You're the cruelest man in the world," she grumbled. "How could you speak to me of another man after you've just made such beautiful love to me?"

"Same thing, Darling; how ill could I be? I just…everyone gets old, Christine. Reza's given me his will to hold, and–"

"He's making you melancholic! Wait til I see that old man, I--" She trembled, lost for words. My precious diva had grown into a wildcat even as I'd become a kitten.

"Christine," I kissed her hands in a vain attempt to get them to unclench, but she tore them away, tucking the sheets around herself tightly.

"No! I'm not listening, Erik! I'm not going to hear this! Get your hands off me!"

"Christine, just promise me you'll find someone to take care of you," I pleaded.

"_You'll_ take care of me, do you hear?" Her eyes shot flames as she clutched my arms; I'd be wearing matching handprint tattoos in the morning. For all her love, she was shaking the life out of me. "You'll take care of me forever, Erik. Promise me, promise; or I'll never forgive you!"

"I'm thirty years your senior, Woman; can't you once listen to me? Once, in our life together? How much have I asked of you?"

"NO!" Christine threw herself against me the way our angry little man used to do. "Go find Anci if you want someone to behave! Tell me you won't leave me; TELL ME!"

She clung to me as if she feared she'd never hold me again, emitting great gasping sobs. When I couldn't take it any longer (not very long at all), I murmured "I won't leave you, Christine." I had to relent; she was squeezing the breath out of me.

"Ever."

"Ever," I added.

"Say you'll take care of me," she sniffled, a frightened orphan again.

"I'll take care of you, Christine," I sighed.

"Forever. Promise."

"I promise, forever."

Well, I reckoned I would have to live forever. How could I leave her if I didn't know she'd be alright? If only she knew how much heartache these battles gave me. Stubborn, willful child; every time I try to look after her it ends up in a mêlée royal. If I had even a sous for each time I'd tried to have this conversation with Christine, I'd be wealthy enough to buy eternal life. There was nothing for it, I'd have to take it up with Raoul. There's poetic irony for you.

-0-0-0-0-

"…received your invitation, Monsieur–"

"Erik, please, hm? And listen here, Son, before my little girl arrives, let's be clear about something."

"Of course, Erik…" Pale; Miri-ange's vicomte was impossibly pale and slim. When I shook his hand, it was as soft as a girl's. Alright, I suppose, so long as the money held out.

"You know something of Masson's escapades, no doubt, but if I catch you playing slap and tickle with my baby, I'll kill you."

He nodded and got even paler, if that was possible. It was gratifying to know I could still threaten, even though I was fangless old lapdog.

Miri-ange glided downstairs with her mother. I got a kiss and a smile before she and her effete beau drifted toward Chagny, where the young people were gathering to dance all night. Christine tugged on my arm. "Will you come next door with me?"

"Of course; I'll have the prettiest girl there. I am always happy to show you off."

"Oh dear, you're too good to me, Erik. Listen, I want you to meet someone; you remember dear Mr Mill? His godson has come to say hello. He was in Paris, and having heard so much about me from the dear old man–"

"I'm sure. He's come to steal you away. Is he young and handsome?"

"You're mad," she giggled. "He's a boy!"

"So, much the better, then; he can keep up with you. What's the rascal's name?"

"Bertrand Russell."

"Egad, not another Bertrand. Alright, then, let's go meet your next husband," I chuckled.

"Will Masson come, do you think?" she worried.

"I hope so. I told him I needed his help spying on Miri-ange and Etienne."

"My baby's heart broken, Erik," Christine lamented. "If I learn the name of the cow–"

"Shame on you, Angel; you sound like a vengeful opera ghost. Anyway, he's been celibate four days now; I'm sure a roomful of plump young pigeons will set him quickly to rights, particularly after a few brisk dances."

"What a positively wicked thing to say about our firstborn. I'll have to consider whether I can forgive you…" She slipped out of my grasp coyly.

"Come back here, you naughty thing," I grinned. What party? I could've stood outside the ballroom all night and let Christine tease me.

"Hm. Why should I?" Her luscious pout worked on me like no drug could.

"Because, speaking of wicked, I have some marvelous gossip for you. About Reza and Silke," I murmured, tempting her into arm's range.

"What about Reza and Silke?"

"She's changed his luck," I whispered.

"Erik, that's not gossip any more than you and I are gossip," she scoffed.

I stared at her. Maybe my mouth was even hanging open.

"Don't tell me you just discovered them? Erik!" Her laugher still made me melt like the first time I heard it. She scampered up the steps and reached out to me. "Come along, my oblivious old man!"

-0-0-0-0-

The party would have been an unqualified success, but the three musketeers staged a raid, dumping a bucket of frogs into the parlor where the girls had congregated to gossip and compare fashions.

No rest for the wicked; Raoul and I had to excuse ourselves to administer beatings. The Chagny boys got off easy with the whippings. On the other hand, Christine marched Gustave over the following morning to scrub the ballroom and parlor floors.

Raoul tried to intervene on poor Gustave's behalf. I tried to warn him to leave it; Christine was in no mood.

"Christine, let him go, for pity's sake; it's nothing but boyish high spirits!"

"Shut up, Raoul, or I'll have you scrubbing as well."

-0-0-0-0-

"Mama's crying," Jeanette tugged at my sleeve. "Please, Papa." It terrifies the little ones when their mother is anything but a pillar of strength and a whirlwind.

"Yes, yes," I groaned, "I'll go. Let me get my old feet under me, Child."

She was curled up in the window seat, unchanged from the little girl who used to hide in the chapel. I sat at her feet and waited.

"Annemarie's left me. She's given no explanation, refused even to speak to me." My angel mourns the loss of every girl as if it was the first. I never know what to do for her.

I longed to tell her what I knew; ease her pain and let her know it hadn't been her failure, but I admit I wasn't a clever enough man to know how to accomplish it without signing my son's death warrant. So I said nothing, and tried to work out what I'd do with Masson now that his sweetheart had returned to the street.


	101. Chapter 101

"Lissen, lissen. Seriously now, this is seriously…serious."

Raoul nodded…or wobbled; I couldn't be certain which.

"I need to talk about my wife. My little Angel," I burbled.

Raoul lurched over and patted my cheek. "Don't cry, Grandpapa; here."

I took a pull from our communal brandy. "I'm gonna die, Raoul."

"WHAT? WHAT?" Raoul fell to hysterical sobbing. "Ohhhh, god…"

"No, no," I waved his panic off a little too vehemently and flung myself off the sofa. "Yeow, goddammit." After three attempts to haul myself back up, I surrendered. "What the hell are you laughing at, you moron? That hurt!"

He was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "It wouldn't hurt if you had an ass, you bony git!"

"I hope you piss yourself, Comte Pinky. Go ahead and waste flesh on your ass. Mine's all in front."

"Just don't show me."

"Lissen! I'm old, is all," I groused. "I need you to look after Christine when I'm gone. I keep trying to tell her to find a good man to take care of her, but she refuses to discuss it."

"I'm a good man," he offered.

"I know; that's what I mean."

-0-0-0-0-

_L'Epoque_ reported a series of assaults against men soliciting a prostitute in a particular area of the city. 'A prostitute'…

Trying to locate a particular whore seemed like an especial absurdity, but I'm not exactly an authority on such things. I'm more the 'Here's a ton of money; do you suppose ANYONE would be willing?' type.

Once again, I resorted to Raoul's area of expertise; who knew he had any? The boy is a marvel. Actually, he wasn't much help. I should have recalled he goes for the fancy brothel types, not the let's-just-slip-down-this-alley types. However, we paid a call to his Madam friend. I wish I could have captured the expression on her face when Raoul asked if we could speak in private.

"Aubine, you remember Erik," Raoul opened, shutting the door.

"Of course, Erik," she purred, offering her hand.

"Madame."

"Oh, no…Aubine," she laughed. "How may I help you, Erik?" She stood too close; her eyes were bottomless chocolate pools. You'd've thought Raoul had vanished off the face of the earth. It would have been a deadly routine, except she was working it on the Most Married Man in the world, poor tart.

I cleared my throat. "I'm, ah, looking for a girl…" She giggled. "A particular girl."

"Oh?" she gave a disappointed pout; nothing like my Angel's pout.

"She works the street, Aubine," Raoul interjected.

That made no sense to Aubine. "But, Erik…" she placed her hand on my chest. "Those girls are so dirty," she crinkled her nose up.

Here is something interesting I've learned: there's a particular sort of woman who'll never get be able to bring herself to help you unless you persuade her you're dying to make love to her. I slipped an arm around Aubine and whispered, "Not for me, Cheri…of course not." She made a happy sound and scooted in closer; better. "I think she knows something about those men that have been beaten."

"You're not a policeman, Erik," she reminded me, a bit of frost creeping into her voice.

"But the man who is doing this…I may know him," I persisted. I let my hand slide onto her bottom. Not bad for an older gal; Christine's was perkier, though. True, Aubine was older than my Angel, but I'll bet she hadn't borne six children. "I need to find out, Cheri. How can I find her?" I nuzzled her temple.

I finally escaped Aubine with my honor and a bit of information. Still, it took several days for me to track Annemarie down. Finally, a redhead with an easy laugh told me where Annemarie might be found. "You'll have more fun with me than Annemarie, Lover."

"Oh, I'm sure of it…" A skinny fellow like me could've crawled into her bodice and never been heard from again. I'll bet I drooled.

"Anyway, it's not safe to go with her, haven't you heard?"

"Yah, that's why I'm looking for her."

"Come back and see me?"

"I'm married, Pigeon," I confessed.

"I don't mind, Lover."

"I know; I do."

-0-0-0-0-

"Annemarie." Her smile flickered when she turned and realized it was me. Poor child didn't want to say yes, but couldn't say no to money. She tried to smile again. "No, Child; I want to ask you about those men that were attacked."

"No; I don't know anything about it," she insisted, moving away.

"The man that did it, Annemarie–"

"No, I never saw him." She started to run. Thank God I'm a former fiend; even in my pathetic condition, I can catch a little whore.

She admitted the men had been soliciting her when they were attacked. She claimed she ran and never saw the man. I didn't believe it, but I didn't want to argue. I told her I intended to keep company with her until I was jumped by her overly protective swain. She fretted about making a living with me monopolizing her time until I assured her that I'd pay her, for, ah, nothing but conversation. I found it particularly ironic that she was unwilling to actually assist the police (or me, for that matter), since a persistent suitor like Masson was undoubtedly bad for business as well. We chatted for awhile, agreed to meet at the inn the next evening, and I walked her home without incident. What a world.

The next night, I enjoyed coffee and a tart–pardon the pun–while Annemarie ate. Healthy appetite–for food, anyway. After supper we strolled a block or so, then turned down an alley Annemarie frequented. We slipped into the yard and away from the lamp, and that's all it took. A strong arm was thrown over my shoulder and a medicinal-smelling rag was shoved into my face as I was forced to the ground. The last thing I was conscious of was Annemarie, running away like the devil was after her.


	102. Chapter 102

It was my son alright; I recognized the behavior before I recognized the voice or face. The comforting mustiness of my old lair soothed my nostrils and I opened my eyes sluggishly. We were next to the lake.

Masson thumped me furiously up against the wall. "What were you doing with my Annemarie? What's wrong with you?" he raged. His hands clutched my throat. I could see he was struggling for control of himself; that was something, but a wounded lion is the most dangerous; no way could I battle this man-boy.

My first thought was to let him kill me. I didn't know how to face the truth of the legacy that I'd bequeathed my son. I remembered another angry man shaking me, years ago.  
_  
"I wasn't trying to abandon her, Reza. It was the pain, I just wanted to make the pain stop!" _

"And it's alright for you to end your pain at the expense of Christine and your children? What of the unbelievable pain your death would have inflicted on them? Even now, that dear woman blames herself for being unable to remove your pain. Erik…don't you even want to be a man for her sake?"

"How?" I wailed. "How shall I be a man?"

Reza leapt up and snatched me to my feet. He shook me so hard I had to clutch my throat. I gasped and choked; pleading for him to stop.

"You stop running! You plaster yourself to her side and let her lean on you for a change! You swallow your doubts and fears! What, do you think no other man feels afraid? You think that you have to be a disfigured madman to feel unworthy? Everyone feels unworthy! We do the right thing anyway!"

The idea melted quicker than an ice in August; I had to make it right. I was not about to tell Christine that I'd gotten a monster on her after all. My heart hurt, but the old Erik asserted himself once again. I executed an old gypsy move and shrugged his arms off, sending him sprawling with a brisk kick before he could realize what I was up to.

"What's wrong with_ you_?" I demanded. "I don't want your poxy _former_ girlfriend."

He rushed at me with a roar , but I held out a bony hand and stopped him. "Don't touch me, boy. You don't put your hand on a man if you're not ready to kill him. Are you ready to kill a man?"

I saw something flicker in his eyes; no time to mourn the fear I beheld there.

"I didn't kill anyone! I just want her to come back to me!" If only I could show him how chillingly familiar his frustration was.

"I had a reasonable explanation for everything I did, too."

Masson tore around my old lair, throwing and kicking anything he could reach. "She must love me! She must love me!" he roared.

God, how those words started an icy ache in my heart. No; this would not happen. I clamped my arms around him and hung on until he ran out of steam and sank to what was left of my library floor rug.

"Masson, you want to be a madman? Come on; I'll show you how to be a madman. Do you know how many men I've killed with these hands? You don't want to look down that road."

He shook his head; madness? Youthful idealism? Christ, I don't know if there's a difference any more; I've lived too long.

"I'm not going to give her up; I don't care what you say. You don't know anything about it!"

I slapped his face. "_Don't you dare!_" I hissed.

I spoke ugly words then. I gave him the story of my life, the way I've never given it to anyone and never intend to give it to anyone again. All my firsts: the day I realized the monster in the mirror was me; finally understanding why Mother hated me; running away; taking the gypsies' self serving interest in me for love and concern. Learning about men and women; my own adolescent awakenings; realizing that none of it would ever be for me. Simmering rage that I nurtured and tended like a delicate vine, until eventually I gave up on being human at all. Killing my first man, grieving for myself as much as for him. Learning about my gifts; longing to share them. The years in Persia; Paris; Christine; everything. Everything; poor Masson. No one should have to hear such a sordid tale.

When I finished, I stood to leave. Masson's golden eyes stared through me; they betrayed no recognition.

"I'm the Opera Ghost, Masson, and always will be. You have that in you, and for that I apologize…but perhaps now you understand why your Mother and I--" My voice gave out. "I'm going home."

-0-0-0-0-

When I arrived home, the course of true love was already running rocky with Miri-ange and her fair vicomte.

"That's the last time we go to the Louvre, then," he was grumbling.

"Fine," Miri-ange huffed; her mother's daughter.

"Fine. Good night–" she shut the door on him.

"Angeline, where are your manners?" I protested.

"Oh, Papa," she sighed. She slipped her arm through mine and we made our way to the parlor. "He's such a dolt sometimes. If I don't agree with his ridiculous opinion, he always manages to make it sound as though I'm a benighted little farm girl."

"Farm girl?" I was mortified.

"You know; untitled means perforce uneducated. Of course I'd agree with him if I were better educated. Are you going to smoke?"

"Of course not; not with you here."

"I don't mind. Mother says it's like kissing an ashtray," she mused.

"Indeed; well, undoubtedly she's kissed her share of ashtrays, woman of the world that she is," I chuckled. "But returning to M de Agrican: there is nothing uneducated about you, my dear. I daresay you're better rounded than he, and that's not fatherly pride."

She smiled; at least my baby girl loved me still. It was delightful to have a peaceful moment, just me and my princess.

"So, how was the Louvre?"

"Glorious, even in spite of Etienne," she sighed, resting her precious head on my shoulder just like her mother. I chuckled and patted her hand.

"Papa. I think I would like to paint," she reflected.

"And so you shall, Angeline." Raising her hand to my lips, I caught a whiff of too-spicy cologne; a hairball threatened. "Shall we shop tomorrow? I'll bring you into Paris myself."

"Papa, you spoil me terribly."

"Guilty, Mamzelle…the better to keep you with me forever, heh-heh."

"Don't worry; Etienne used to say he admired the way I speak my mind," she complained.

"What a fellow says when he's trying to impress a girl is one thing. Now you're a potential vicomtesse…a potential embarrassment," I shrugged.

"Embarrassment! You never worried about Mama embarrassing you!"

"Of course not; I worry about embarrassing Mama."

"Oh, Papa; never," she insisted. "But why would I embarrass Etienne speaking my mind?"

"You may wish to take that up with Manon. Nobility is different, Angeline."

"Raoul isn't like that, Papa!" she cried, aghast.

"Hm. When you're older, I'll tell you some stories."

That had whetted her feminine appetite. She squeezed my arm hungrily. "Papa, tell me now. I'm–"

"Not a child, I know. Just suffice it to say that if Raoul had been more like me years ago, you wouldn't be here."

-0-0-0-0-

I lay awake all night, listening for Masson's footfalls. I never heard him come in, but when I slipped past his open door in the morning, he called out to me. I had to chuckle to myself, recalling how we'd snuck around the opera house when he was a child. He always understood about stealth and silence, even before he could speak.

"Good Morning, Son," I ventured a smile.

"Papa, was that all true last night?" I noticed he was reluctant to meet my eyes.

"It was indeed." I swallowed a big lump of shame which was rising in my throat. I wondered if my boy would ever look at me the same way again, ever love me again. But what else could I do? He had to know what I'd bequeathed him. He had to know his awful heritage, the better to be on the lookout for it in himself.

"You suffered–"

"Everyone suffers, Masson."

"Papa, do you think I'm mad?" he worried.

"I don't think so, but I'm not a good judge of such things," I winked.

"What can I do?" he cried, not particularly appreciative of my insanity humor; just like his mother.

"You can leave Annemarie alone and meditate on my story. You can talk to me and your mother. You can remember that you have a genetic invitation to madness and not let your temper run away with you." It sounds cruel, I know; but I said it as gently as I could.

"I love her, Papa!"

"And did you hear anything I said last night?" I raised an irritable eyebrow and moved toward the door. "Come along, Son; I need coffee."

He stumbled into his trousers and followed me downstairs. We grabbed our coffee and escaped to the music room before the entire household awakened. When we'd settled, I noted him studying his cup rather more than a silly piece of porcelain merited. I waited—less calmly than I appeared.

Finally, he whispered, "Are you mad, Papa?"

I chuckled and smoothed a trouser cuff; my hand was shaking. "Not so mad as I was years ago, Son. We have your sainted mother to thank for her civilizing influence and her forbearance. But, to be frank, I think the madness is still there. Dormant, like a tree in winter, perhaps, or a hibernating bear." I smiled and rumpled his hair. He accepted my affection happily, but he was still troubled.

"Do you fear that you may—" he hesitated to form the words.

"Just go raving mad at any moment? No. Not anymore; I did do for some time. Now, I think it would be some great, horrible tragedy that might send me round the bend. If I were to lose Mama and all of you, for example. Generally speaking, however, I think the world is safe from Erik at long last."

We might have talked longer, but my barefoot, sleep-rumpled Pickle came padding down the steps and clambered up into my bony lap. She liked awaken slowly with a back rub as she eased into the morning. Masson took my cup upstairs for a refill. Handing it back to me, he murmured "Thanks, Papa." He met my gaze as he said it, and as I watched him head upstairs, I felt relieved that we'd be alright, my golden bear and I.


	103. Chapter 103

Life proceeded apace at Chagny/Rouen.

Miri-ange dabbled with paints and pastels. I helped her however I could, but naturally, she surpassed me technically within a year of picking up a pencil–all my children are bloody brilliant; no bragging, just facts. Inevitably, she decided that she needed to surround herself with artsy types. So, most days she packed up her supplies and off she went to Monmartre; God help me and my ancient heart. In short order, our home was inundated with young Bohemians and their, ah, models.

Ultimately, Etienne could no longer bear her 'willful unconventionality', but there was nothing for it. She'd taken to tempera, charcoal and canvas like Masson had taken to the violin. I felt sympathy for the boy; he'd been a devoted suitor to her, and a chaste one besides, according to Raoul's sources. (He kept me apprised of all the gossip concerning young noblemen; after all, we both had girls coming of age.) But in the end, Etienne and Miri-ange realized what Christine and I had known all along; our daughter was out of his league.

Masson mourned Annemarie rather longer than I'd hoped, but in the end Miri-ange and her artsy tribe came to his rescue. To describe Masson as a child in a candy shop does not even approach it. I took to pressing nutritious meals on him at every opportunity. If I could have died of envy, I would have done; shameless hussies plumping for my boy, lurking in corners…literally.

"Daroga, do you suppose one can die of screwing too much? I'm worried about--"

"Hm. I'd think the system would begin to shut down before he could do himself that much damage," he mused.

"Obviously you don't remember being nineteen," I groused.

"As if you do. You're just worrying because you've nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to–" I sputtered. "I beg your pardon?! My son is being drained of all his vital fluids! Miri-ange is being pursued by _artists_, for God's sake! And what about Carmen; she's just at that age!"

"Carmen will tell them all to go to the devil, Erik; don't you worry about that. What've you got against artists all of a sudden?"

"Well, it's nothing but lounging around with naked women, isn't it? And they all need haircuts. Why don't boys get haircuts anymore?"

"Just as I suspected; you're jealous."

-0-0-0-0-

Gaston and I gradually managed a rapprochement. I didn't take him into my confidence anymore, but we made each other laugh and it wasn't right having a smoker without him. He added some of his writer friends to the cultural milieu at Chagny/Rouen; the place was constantly abubble intellectually and artistically. It was everything I could have wished for my children, and I was grateful to Gaston for his contribution to that atmosphere, as well as for his friendship. We never discussed his manuscript again.

Christine waylaid me just as I was escaping next door for a liquid debauch.

"Something tells me I'm for it, Angel; am I for it?"

"Look at you, acting as if butter wouldn't melt in your scheming mouth," she fumed. "Get in here!" She dragged my spindly carcass into the parlor. I tried to look as innocent as possible; should have been simple since I had no idea what I'd done to step in it, but that would have meant underestimating Christine's ability to blame me for absolutely everything: flood, famine… "Tell me you did not agree to fencing lessons for Carmen." Christine's arms were crossed; her toe was tapping; what would you have said?

"I did not agree to fencing lessons for Carmen."

"Really?"

"Really what?"

"You really didn't agree?"

"Uh, you told me to tell you I did not agree–"

She whacked me. "You're irredeemable!" She was not amused.

"I hope we're not going to do the 'Girls don't take fencing lessons' drill, Angel," I worried.

"I don't want to hear that I'm a hypocrite, Erik, I warn you."

"I won't tell you you're a hypocrite. I'll tell you how enthralling your eyes are, throwing sparks…"

"Leave off my bottom, you!" She squirmed like a piglet.

"Why? I'm sober…" She caught my wrists and wrapped her arms around me; I was trapped. "This is nice," I admitted agreeably.

"Erik, just give me a straight answer for once. I don't want Carmen to have fencing lessons; why did you tell her yes?"

"Because telling her–or any of your daughters–no, does not work. Where's the harm in her joining the musketeers' lessons?"

"She's already an Amazon!"

"That's your fault, Angel."

"She'll never get a husband!"

"Some men like Amazons…You're sort of an Amazon, and you've managed two husbands so far." Even though my hands were imprisoned, I was able to make valiant attempts at her lips, cheeks, and neck.

"This is a lost cause, as usual," she muttered ruefully, freeing my wrists.

"Oh, goody."

-0-0-0-0-

"Where the hell have you been?" Raoul demanded. "It's half-eleven!"

"Sorry; I was detained for questioning. Glad to see you started without me; and I'll thank you to remove that salacious grin," I sniffed.

"You in trouble?"

"Is the Pope Catholic? Fencing lessons for Carmen," I explained.

"I knew it. So…did you change her mind?"

"Nope; just my luck, so far," I admitted, pouring a cognac.

Raoul frowned as he proffered the humidor. "I just don't…how is it that an ancient troll gets laid more than me?"

"Substance over style, my boy," I puffed smugly. "Whoa, exquisite!"

"Mm. Honduras; wherever the hell that is."

"You're not really pouting, are you? Come along now; how many models have you plumbed since Miri-ange has gone Boho? I haven't had any strange in…uh…er…"

"Anci."

"Oh. Yeah." I drained my drink and went for another. "Let's change the subject."

"Alright!" Comte Pinky; attention span of a flea. "I've heard about a scandalous exhibit; all the best artists. You know; the stuff that doesn't get in the public shows. Want to go?"

Reza, Raoul and I met Gaston and his friend, Alain Chartier. Chartier was some philosopher type, who, small world, also knew Christine's friend's godson, Bertrand. If it sounds incestuously muddled, it is. Anyway, we met at the coffeehouse for food, popped in briefly on the green fairy, and then it was off to look at naughty paintings.

There was a delectable pencil sketch of a girl in a bathtub I rather fancied, and some modern looking stuff–maybe I'm getting old, but I was hard pressed to pick out the girl's parts, much less get a thrill from them. If that's the way art is going, they can let me out at the curb, thanks.

So we strolled around, sipping sherry and offering muttered opinions like proper pretentious art critics until we came to the piece de resistance. There was a tremendous crowd around the painting; we actually had to stand off making small talk before we could wind our way through clusters of artsy types gasping 'extraordinary' and comparing it to Courbet's _L'Origine du monde_.

It was called _Bal Masque_, ironically enough, and it was a very dark piece of work, literally; all dark except the model's luminescent flesh and hair. She might have been standing in a closet, a feeling reinforced by the long, narrow dimensions of the canvas. Odd for Renoir, master of light that he was, to paint something so dark, but then…it was undeniably erotic. The girl stood with her back to us, one knee resting on a black-draped something; her face visible only enough to hint at the black-feathered mask. She leaned forward, a black-gloved hand reaching between her legs to shield her sex. The entire feeling was one of this girl being enveloped by a conscious, living darkness, trapped between the moonlight and her lover, a formless shade. I was struck–unsettled?--by the way the long dark gloves and stockings made her torso seem to float unsupported. My eyes traced the line of her silvery hip…there, just above the stocking…

"Excuse me." I shoved some anonymous gawker.

"Now, see here…"

He might have continued berating me; I didn't hear. I crouched before the painting; closer. My eyesight is as good as ever, but…I had to be sure. A rosy dove, just taking flight…I'd not seen it in years. We used to tell Miri-ange it was an angel's kiss on her thigh.

The room turned hot and close. "Raoul." I reached for him blindly, unable to tear my eyes away; then the darkness reached out from the painting and enveloped me too.


	104. Chapter 104

"MIREILLE ANGE!" I exploded into the foyer. "MIREILLE!" I prowled the halls, throwing doors wide as I went.

Christine materialized, blanching at the undisguised fury on my face. I took the stairs three at a time and she flitted along behind.

"MIREILLE ANGE!" I bashed Miri-ange's bedroom door open.

"Erik, privacy…" Christine reminded me.

"Bugger that; she's got no need of privacy while she's under my fucking roof."

"Erik!"

"Christine. Where the devil is my daughter?" I demanded frostily.

"I suppose next door," she offered timidly. "Erik, what's–"

"WHY THE HELL DON"T YOU KNOW WHERE SHE IS, WOMAN?" I roared, leaving her speechless. I turned toward Chagny, leaving Christine puzzling in my wake. As I approached, youthful laughter billowed from the terrace overlooking the garden.

"MIREILLE ANGE!" I thundered, plowing through the shrubbery.

Stunned silence greeted me. Masson and some willing-tit on the divan, scrambling to disengage; Liselotte and a red-bearded, tousle-haired bear, at whom I fired a passing death stare; a troupe of shaggy boys and bed bunnies--artsy types; and my little treasure, my ruined princess…my fallen angel.

"Papa?" As her mother said, butter wouldn't melt in the child's mouth.

Look at you, I thought; all big-eyed innocence. I couldn't collect enough breath for another holler. "A word. Home. Now." I panted, turning for home. I didn't check to see that she followed me; she'd bloody well follow me, by God.

Christine awaited us on the front steps, skirts clutched in her hands. I reckon she'd had her ear cocked for blood-curdling screams and was ready to initiate a rescue. "Erik, darling…" she bustled alongside, suddenly the obsequious little wife.

"Save it, Christine. MIRI-ANGE!" Christine clapped her hands over her ears, cringing as Miri-ange rushed into the parlor.

"Here, Papa," she breathed dutifully. Right, you little viper; you belong on the stage. Well, you've played your doting old daddy for the last time.

"Sit down."

"Erik–"

"Get out, Christine." Two sets of identical blue eyes all but jumped from their sockets.

When she recovered herself, Christine ventured again. "Erik–"

"No. Out." I repeated, refusing to tear my gaze away from my daughter. Christine must've decided I'd finally lost all my marbles. She glanced helplessly at Miri-ange; What is it? I don't know, the girl shrugged in silent reply. Christine departed wordlessly.

Miri-ange sat, silently bewildered. She didn't have long to wait; I was in no mood for preliminaries. My arm felt caught in a vise; I squeezed back.

"Let me see your right leg."

Her brow crinkled, eyes darted. Extending her foot, she raised her skirt about five inches. I cackled like my former self and she dropped her skirt, astonished. "Papa, you're frightening me!"

"Indeed? That won't do," I waved off her feeble display. "I want to see your angel kiss."

Her mouth fell open; her eyes flashed confusion, irritation, fear. "What do you mean? No!" she cried, gathering her skirt in protectively.

I cackled again. "Come along now, I bathed you, dressed you; why am I the only man in Paris who can't see?"

"Papa!" she leapt to her feet, mortified. Hot tears threatened both of us. I turned half away, fingered a worn spot on the desk blotter absently.

"I saw _Bal Masque_," I confessed. _God, help me catch my breath in this interminable silence. _When nothing was forthcoming from my Angeline, I pressed. "You know it?"

"Yes."

"What? I can't hear you–"

"I said yes!"

I nodded and turned around, almost as an experiment to see if my little girl still looked the same to me; she did, strangely enough. "You know M Renoir."

Silence.

"Mireille, you answer me now."

"It isn't how it looks, Papa."

"Ohhhh, please no," I groaned, "That has to be the tritest, most over-worked phrase; I beg of you, don't disappoint me in this, too. How long have you been taking your clothes off for him?"

"You make it sound so sordid!" she despaired.

"Oh, it's perfectly sordid; make no mistake. Just because he's a famous artist, and his studio isn't a squalid little garret, it's still DISGUSTING!"

She cringed.

"How long have you been taking your clothes off for him? Who else? I thought it was an artist you wanted to be, not a–"

"Stop, Papa! I don't take my clothes off for anyone but Auguste."

"Auguste?" I raised my eyebrow. "That sounds cozy." Her eyes sparked just like Christine's. "Don't you glare at me like that, Miss. You think it makes you a good Catholic girl because you let only one fellow--not your husband, not even your goddamned intended, mind you–look at your cootchie?"

"I suppose this isn't the best time to tell you we're lovers, then."

"CHRISTINE!"

I try to handle things myself and not drag Christine into them if I believe I can–and if it seems to be for the good of all concerned. This was not one of those times. I opened a bottle of Beaujolais for us and lit a cigar, ignoring Christine's stink-eye. Then I tried to bring my wife up-to-date on our baby's news. She was remarkably composed; I was quite proud of her, and pleased, as I wasn't up to dragging her tiny enraged frame off Miri-ange. When I'd delivered this delightful homily, Christine turned, bewildered, to her daughter. "But, Miri-ange, Pierre-Auguste Renoir? Isn't he your Father's age?"

"No, Mama; Auguste is sixty-one."

"SWEET SUFFERING CHRIST!" The wineglass flew from my hand as a bolt of pain seared from my chest to my fingertips. Christine rushed to comfort me. "There, Child; I'm fine. I just need to sit down," I choked.

"Miri-ange…you're only nineteen, Darling," Christine reminded her.

"But you were only twenty, Mama–"

"And she was married, do you hear?" I roared. "She certainly didn't strip for–" Christine patted my hand, encouraging me to calm myself.

"How do you know what she did?" Miri-ange's challenge was plain.

I scrambled upright as Christine cooed and soothed me. I heard the panic creeping into her voice as she pleaded with me to let it go. "Listen here, you alley cat! I know what I know, and I'm damned if I'll discuss your mother's maidenhead with you!"

"Erik," Christine whispered. She pressed against me with all her might, pinning me to the sofa. "Please go lie down; let me speak with her."

"She's–" I wanted to protest; if only I could breathe.

"_I'm begging you,_" she gasped, her chin quivering as she stroked my cheek. Forced to relent, I left the parlor without a backward glance. When I paused at the foot of the staircase, I heard Christine hiss at Miri-ange. "What is wrong with you; will you kill him? Can't you see he's not well?"

So much for me shielding my Angel.

Upstairs, I dropped my clothes where I stood and slipped into bed. I adore cool, fresh sheets, even when they make me shiver. It was difficult to get comfortable. My arm no longer ached, but I still felt rather breathless. I couldn't find a way to embrace what I'd learnt that day; I wished I was younger, my mind more flexible. Miri-ange had taken a lover; forty-odd years older than she, and a married man as I recalled.

When a particularly awful event occurs, I've noticed that it's human nature to play mental games with the passage of time. We conduct little exercises like, If only I had not turned back to fetch my gloves, I would not have been in the midst of that accident, or If only I had been looking the other way, I would not have seen the thief. So it was with me in bed that evening. If only I had not bought her art supplies; if only she had been forced to elope with Etienne; irrational thoughts. _How can I possibly keep you safe now, my baby? Safe; neither can I protect Christine. My whole life's been a failure._

-0-0-0-0-

I dozed after all.

"Erik." Christine's hand on my forehead. She looked ashen. "I've invited him."

"Christine," I croaked. My eyes pleaded with her to help me understand.

"She may be pregnant," Christine murmured, handing me a glass of water.

I couldn't utter a sound.

"I can't argue with her, Erik. If you could hear the things she's saying…it sounds as if they adore each other." She pressed her face to my neck; I nodded.

Confused and wounded, Christine and I had no idea what to do. Worst of all, this crisis saw us embroiled in the most protracted and agonizing disagreement I believe our marriage ever suffered. I wanted to tell Miri-ange that it was utterly impossible, love or not, and that if she saw Renoir again I would take it as a sign that she had decided to make her own way in the world.

Christine was horrified at this suggestion; she couldn't fathom turning a child away, and after all, she insisted, who's the hypocrite now, Erik? Wasn't I married when I came to you ? she demanded. Well, I had no answer for that. Miri-ange insisted it was love between her and Renoir, no matter he was married, so Christine felt we should to try extend the olive branch, as we'd done with Etienne. She wanted to invite Renoir to tea, god help me. She said we needed to see them together to lay our fears to rest. From there, I guessed, she thought we could take it a step at a time.

In the end I couldn't bear the anger and pain that lingered in the air between Christine and me. Our hearts were breaking for our little angel; I needed my darling wife's comfort more than ever, as she did mine. So I relented; we'd do it Christine's way.


	105. Chapter 105

Some fears aren't laid to rest so easily.

Over the following days, I was overtaken by waves of murderous rage so violent I could scarcely draw breath. In these moments I wondered how I would ever manage when Renoir cruised into my parlor and attempted polite conversation. One night, I sat in the bathtub and wept. I couldn't bear the hollow grief in Christine's eyes. My daughter shunned me as though I was the one scandalizing Paris with my behavior.

One thing of which I was absolutely certain: my eldest daughter could not be permitted to ruin the lives of her Mother and siblings. When I looked around the dinner table at my little children, I felt so impotent. I knew that I would put Miri-ange away if she was pregnant. There was nothing for it, though it meant my death, I was convinced. What frightened me was what Christine's reaction would likely be. Could it be after all we'd been through that I'd lose her over such a thing? I honestly feared it. She kept sighing, saying we had to bear it. She's our daughter, Erik; what else can we do, she'd ask. Well, we could pray like all the saints and apostles that there's no baby, for a start. If there was no baby, perhaps there was a chance for Miri-ange yet. I needed to ask Raoul what he knew, what he'd heard. I needed to know how much my little Princess' name was out in the streets, but I was terrified to learn the truth.

Reza watched with pleading lapdog eyes, but I was as volatile as I'd been in memory.

"I can't discuss it, Daroga. I don't know where to begin, or what to say. If I start, I'm too afraid of myself. Stupid girl! Goddamned stupid girl!"

-0-0-0-0-

"Erik. Talk to your daughter."

"What the devil am I to say to her, Christine? Isn't it time for her Mother to take her in hand?"

"I tried." She was picking at her sleeve and breathing shallowly. "All she'll say to me is that he said…he said he wouldn't come."

I wheeled away from Christine, making for the back garden.

"Don't you walk away from me, Erik!" Her voice was ragged with fury.

"Christine, I cannot hear this now. I have all to do not to hunt the barbarian down and murder him in front of his long-suffering wife. You give me some time now, Woman. Go away."

I was actually surprised that she let it go that easily; so unlike her. I went to the kitchen garden and pinched off a bit of thyme. Crushing the leaves, I released the pungent scent; it relaxed me somehow. I bent to pull up a few stray weeds, wondering what Miri-ange was thinking.

This revelation, heartbreaking as it was for her, was actually helpful to me. It helped me clarify my thinking considerably. Not that it made me feel better for it; quite the contrary. It was my entire fault, spoiling her and doting on her as I had. So busy worrying about Masson that I didn't see where the danger really lay. Masson can't stay away from the women, God love him, but he's got a loving, generous heart. Miri-ange really didn't lose much sleep about anyone else, except as it affected her agenda. Even as a baby, she wouldn't hear 'No'. It's part of youth to be self-absorbed, I understood, but there was something so single-minded in Miri-ange's pursuit of her desires. It reminded me of…me, and it was frightening.

I'm sorry to admit that the part of me that was pure Papa still wanted to murder Renoir, but the tiny part of me that could be reasonable suggested otherwise. It seemed clear that my daughter had made a fool of herself over a married man. Not that it excused him, no; but who knew how much fighting off he'd done? If I knew my Miri-ange, he'd all but beaten her off with a bundle of switches. I was nothing but a decrepit skeleton, but I'd been a man once, and I could put myself in something of Renoir's predicament. What could be more alluring to a man than a girl who's clearly mad about him? I imagined him doing all he could to persuade her off the idea, until finally, her gave her what she insisted on. And for her part, she'd convinced herself that he was as passionately in love with her as she was with him; otherwise why would he take her to bed?

-0-0-0-0-

"I'm afraid we must discuss M Renoir, my dear; for all of our sakes. I've avoided it as long as possible."

Miri-ange's eyes belied the haughty tilt of her head as she settled on the music room sofa.

"Well, Mirielle? You've nothing to say? Your Mother tells me that he's refused our invitation; why?"

"He's married, Papa." Her admission was lifeless.

"But you knew that, Miri-ange, don't lie about it!"

"He said—"

"I'm sure that he said a good many things, Mam'zelle. As I recall, we've spoken before about the disparities between what men say and what they think; ages ago, it seems now," I chuckled ruefully.

"Auguste's not a liar!"

"I didn't say he was," I replied cynically.

"You don't know anything about it! He said—"

"Did he ever say he'd leave his wife for you? Marry you? Take care of you? Did he ever once promise you anything? You'll tell me the truth, God help you!"

The way she hung her head obviated any words she might have uttered. I knew she was on the verge of tears again, but if I let that move me, I feared I'd never speak again. "Just as I suspected; he never encouraged you at all, did he? Angeline, you pressed your attentions on that man."

"No!" she cried.

"You threw yourself at him without a thought for your name, or the name of anyone in this house. Your Mother…your sisters who'll never succeed in making decent marriages because of this outrage. Your bothers will be harmed too, but not like the girls will be. It's been a reckless, selfish performance, make no mistake."

"Papa, stop it! Isn't it enough for you that I've lost the only man I'll ever love? Why must you torture me?"

"Have you heard a word I said, Girl?" Keeping my voice lowered was impossible. "You, your worries, your pain, your fun and games! No one else exists for you, do they?" God help me; my heart was breaking again. How could it break so many times? Would it break for everyone I loved?

She wailed wordlessly, hugging herself and rocking like a mourning gypsy woman.

When she finally settled, I asked wearily, "Miri-ange, do you know for certain whether there's a child?" I

"No…I don't know. I don't know! Papa, I'm afraid!"

"And well you should be, my Dear. I'm sorry, but I really cannot think of a thing to say which might console you, Mirielle. Have you thought at all about what you'll do?"

She was nonplussed. "Do?"

"Yes; where you'll go, what you'll do?" I repeated.

"But I want to stay here! Papa!"

"You should've thought about that before you let him screw you, and let all of Paris know it." I was sorry to speak so cruelly to Miri-ange, but it was time she understood the magnitude of her...error. Anyway, if I was brutal, it was nothing compared to what the rest of Paris would be.

-0-0-0-0-

I told Christine to start looking for someplace to send Miri-ange, just in case. She called me a heartless bastard and rushed next door to Manon. Of course Raoul and Manon knew about the painting, but we'd not included them in the rest of the drama. We had wanted to be sure just how much of a debacle it actually was before we shared it with everyone. Haha.

"My God." Raoul was paler than I'd ever seen him. "Erik, Erik, this is a disaster; it can't be."

I nodded. "I know, but what else can we do, Raoul? She's only one child." I passed my hand through my hair, exasperated. "Christine hates me; she thinks I'm abandoning the girl. Has she lost all good sense, Raoul? Doesn't she realize the position it puts us all in? What will become of our babies if we just accept her and her willful disregard for everyone? It's all my fault, all my fault; I should have been harder on her. I thought it was the boy I had to worry about, Raoul. I turned her into an impossible, selfish—"

"Stop. You're not helping anything by going into your misery. "

"Raoul. I need to know what they're saying about her; is she ruined?"

"There has been talk about the two of them," he admitted. "Some say there must be something between them. Others say no; but…"

"What? But what?" My aching heart went back to my throat. "Raoul, for God's sake!"

"Well, it's just that they're saying she's no artist if she's taken her clothing off."

I nodded, irritated, but not surprised. "Of course. God dammit!" I punched the table; not a wise idea. "Well. I can't worry about that now; nor can she. We just have to wait and see if she's got a little parting gift or not."

"Wuh—Erik, she can't …she can't, my daughters!"

"I know that, you cabbage head! Which is exactly why I told Christine we've got to figure out what to do with her. Ah, Raoul…"

"Hm?"

"You've been a tremendous friend to us, and I don't know what I'll do if it comes to it, but I want you to…do whatever you must for the good of your family," I choked. I couldn't let him ruin his name and the futures of his children for the sake of our friendship. We both knew that if the worst came to fruition, Christine and the children and I would have to leave Chagny/Rouen--and our friendship with the Chagnys--behind. "I'll understand; it won't change anything between us really. Promise me."

"I can't talk about this now, Erik; talk to me about it later."

-0-0-0-0-

"Papa?"

"Jeanette!" I smiled, fishing a chocolate from my waistcoat. She was not too old yet to fail to appreciate a chocolate from Papa, which delighted me. "Come, Child. Shall we play together?" I slid over on the piano bench. Her face was solemn; like all my children, she had her Mother's crinkly eyebrow frown whenever she was worried. "What is it, Angel?"

"Is Miri-ange sick?"

Oh, Jesus, no. Please no.

"Ahem, no…Angel; why? Have you noticed her being ill, or…" I couldn't finish.

"No. But everyone is talking quietly and I can tell that you and Mama are upset. Miri-ange is sad."

Children always know what is going on; the most we can hope for is that they will talk to us about what is worrying them. For our part, I think we must tell the truth as much as possible.

"Miri-ange has fallen in love with an unsuitable gentleman, Angel. They've broken it off, and she needs some time to grieve."

"But it's going to be alright," Jeanette stated. She slipped her hand inside mine, still confident that Papa could fix everything.

"Yes," I choked, "it's going to be alright."


	106. Chapter 106

Christine threw her arms around me, weeping.

"Happy tears," she gasped. "There's no baby!"

_Thank you once again, Lord._

"She can stay at home with us now, can't she Erik?" Her eyes, so hopeful; it broke my heart.

"Of course she can, Christine, so long as her reputation's not been ruined. That would only harm our other children, as well as Raoul's."

"We don't have to send her away! No one will know!" she insisted hotly.

"Christine, have you heard any talk?" I asked, as mildly as I could.

"No."

"No, nor have I—and we never shall. That's the way it works, don't you see? No one will be good enough to tell us directly, but suddenly people decline Raoul and Manon's invitations with regret; the hypocrites won't say it's because they fear the Rouens will be there. Little by little, the children begin losing friends as their parents forbid them. No, I think it would be well for her to travel for a few months at least."

"Erik," she blanched.

"Why don't you take her up to Perros?" I stroked her hair and tried putting a brave face on it. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Angel? Some time at the shore? It's not as if you couldn't use a rest."

"Alone?"

"Not alone; you and Miri-ange," I smiled a little.

"No. I won't leave you; what if you needed me and—"

I pulled her close again. "I always need you, but I take your point. I'm not ill, Christine, why won't you believe me?"

"Because you're an inveterate liar and you'll say anything to get me to do what you want," she pouted for effect. It was gratifying to see that I could still turn her fears away with a good cuddle, at least sometimes.

"You flatter me, Darling. I'm a shadow of my former scheming self."

-0-0-0-0-

"Now here's a turnabout; I have the pleasure of rousing you from your slumber."

"Gaaah. I haven't slept in days, Daroga."

"I'm sure of that." He set his plate on the table and arranged himself in his sunbeam. "I've spoken to Silke—leave my food, you!" He whacked my hand.

"Well, you should have brought me some." I made another snatch for his plate.

"You're a fiend!"

"I can't help it; there's never any pickled onions when I go on a raid. Darius and your woman hide them from me. You have an in," I whined. I'm not above whining for my onions.

Reza slid his plate over in helpless surrender. "There. Gorge yourself. I hope you get a bellyache. Now, do you want to hear what I have to say, or will you plunder the rest of my lunch as well, you Tartar?"

"Mm, no; go ahead. You've spoken to Silke…"

"And she would enjoy a holiday in Perros. Why don't you let us take Miri-ange? We're thinking of a month there and then perhaps on to England."

"England?" I grimaced. "You'll perish. They put milk in their tea. You'll starve. They eat the vilest things; oatmeal and sheep's guts and boiled beef."

"As usual, you're overreacting. And what is it with you and food all of a sudden?"

"I'm getting old; soon it'll be the only vice left me," I mourned. "Maybe I'll take on a new hobby: I'll get fat."

"That'll be the day. At any rate, I think it's Scotland and its culinary disasters that you're thinking of. I'd never take Miri-ange there; the men are big and burly and hairy," he chuckled.

"What makes you think she'd go for big, burly and hairy?"

"All women do; they just don't admit it. Perhaps it's the skirts," he mused.

"I see. Thank you for elucidating that point, Don Juan. So, you'd really do that? You'd take her in hand? Reza, she's--"

"I know perfectly well what she is. Of course we'd take her," he grumbled. "Erik, what other family do you suppose I've got? Let us take her. In a few months, Paris will be on to the next scandal, and with any luck, it won't involve any of our children."

-0-0-0-0-

I couldn't get Renoir out of my mind; I wanted to speak to him. I didn't feel I'd heal until I laid eyes on him. I was reasonably sure I wouldn't kill him; what an absurd scenario, two creaky geriatrics locked in mortal combat. I genuinely felt he was a bit of a victim, but with Miri-ange safely packed off to nurse her broken heart, I wanted to make sure he'd learnt a lesson, and show him just how lucky he was to escape with his neck. So I dusted off my best lunatic stare and went looking for him.

I almost lost my nerve right out of the gate; I called at his home. Little Madame Renoir took one look at me, gasped, and clutched her belly. Emphatically pregnant, she started to wobble. I dropped to my knees and steadied her with as much propriety as possible, murmuring apologies all the while. As she recovered, she pleaded for me to take no offense. God love her; you'd think she'd realize I'm used to it by now.

I explained I was looking for her lying, cheating, cowardly bastard of a husband—not in so many words—and she directed me to his studio. I apologized a few dozen more times before staggering away, begging my heart to stop its fluttering. I had to duck into an alley and whisper a tearful prayer that I hadn't marked Madame Renoir's innocent child; if the child came out wrong I knew I couldn't bear it.

The adulterous fiend was pottering about with some flowers when I caught up to him.

"Monsieur Renoir."

The start he gave said he knew me; I mean, he'd heard of me.

"At your service, Monsieur…ah…" he stammered. "Forgive me; please come in." His studio was neater than I'd expected; why do I always imagine artists' studios to be such messy affairs? "Tea? Wine?"

"Thank you, no." I took the seat he offered.

"You have me at a disadvantage, Sir," he confessed. "I know…of… you, but your name, if I ever knew it, eludes me now."

"Mm. Rouen; Erik Rouen."

He went ashen. Well, there's something, I thought; at least he had her full name…among other things. He tried to wet his lips, but I suspect all his spit had dried up the instant he realized I was his little dumpling's father and a homicidal maniac besides. Since it looked like he remained speechless, I continued.

"As you've been unable to accept my invitation, it falls to me to call on you. I quite understand; it must be difficult for you to slip away with Madame so close to her confinement."

I know I'm a bastard, but my tongue was all that was left to me if I wasn't going to strangle him. I had to see him squirm a bit. Besides, it feels good to know you've still got it when you're an old geezer.

"I can explain," he offered.

My eyebrow shot up of its own accord. "Can you? Really?"

His hope was fleeting; his expression crumpled like a spent blossom. "No. I can't," he admitted. "You're her father, what can I say to you?" He buried his face in his hands briefly, ran them through his impressive head of hair. The grey sprinkled through it did not detract from his good looks; he had the soft spaniel eyes which many women find devastating.

His anguish was palpable and it moved me. I've made my share of mistakes; I've made mistakes enough for several lifetimes. I relented.

"Did she tell you her fear?" I asked. Renoir's eyes widened with dread.

"There is no child," I assured him. He looked as if he might weep. He leapt up and hurried to the window. I gave him a moment, reflecting that someday it would be good for Miri-ange to hear about how she'd made the man she claimed to love so deeply suffer. I heard Reza and Christine: Erik, you've got to stop hurting people.

"Sir," Renoir brought me back to the present. "I—"

I raised my hand. "Don't; the less I know the better. Presently, my daughter is traveling in the company of relatives; it remains to be seen if there is anything left for her in Paris when she returns. I only came here to satisfy myself that you intend no further contact with her."

"No, no! I swear it! I told her it was impossible--"

"Yes," I replied blandly, getting to my feet. "I am sorry to have made your acquaintance under such circumstances," I admitted, "For I admire your talent."

"Thank you," he murmured, clearly ashamed.

I was nearly at the door when I paused. "Ah, and _Bal Masque_?"

"I shall destroy it immediately; immediately!" Pain lined his face; I understood. I nodded, though it gave me no satisfaction to ask a fellow artist to destroy his own creation.

"Thank you. By the way, I rather enjoyed the irony, under the circumstances," I chuckled, tapping my mask.

He took my hand like a nervous little shop clerk. "Thank you, Sir. Thank you. God bless you."

"He has. Plenty."


	107. Chapter 107

Christine stirred as the bouquet's perfume reached her nose. She stretched, smiling. Her loving gaze still made me weak-kneed. _It should be like this for all my children, Lord,_ I prayed. _Please see them safe and healthy; but most of all let them be loved as I am._

"What is this? How lovely! Erik, the lilacs and muguet make the most intoxicating fragrance." She offered a kiss.

"Mm." I reflected that there's no fragrance like Christine's for making one giddy, but I kept it to myself. She scooted upright and over, making room for me. I settled the breakfast tray on her lap and stretched out by her feet.

"This is a delightful surprise, Erik; thank you," she beamed, slathering obscene amounts of butter onto her croissant. "You're—what's wrong?" she frowned.

"Nothing," I swore, admittedly a little teary-eyed. "It's just that twenty two years ago today, you brought me breakfast in bed and told me life is good."

"Oh, Erik!" Setting the tray aside, she crawled into my embrace.

"Life _is _good, Christine," I murmured.

"Yes; it is very good, my Angel."

"Would you like to sing today?"

"I would love to sing today."

-0-0-0-0-

We spent a perfect day with our younger children; full of music, a picnic, and games on the lawn. In the evening, Masson and Carmen took charge of the tribe, freeing me and my bride to go into Paris. I offered her the Opera Populaire, the ballet, a proper opera; anything. She wanted a carriage ride around the city and to go dancing. Imagine that.

"You won't let me spoil you no matter how I try, will you?"

She slid closer and laid her head on my shoulder. "But I am spoiled; kiss me." I complied happily. "You see? You do anything I ask, and plenty I don't," she insisted.

"And that is a good thing?" I wondered. She removed something from my lapel; a stray hair, spun gold from my angel's head.

"Oh, well, of course you were a bit of a scoundrel until I got you in hand, Darling, but you've been an absolute lamb since…" she considered. "I suppose it's been since we moved to Perros! You've been such a good boy since you've settled down."

"'Settled down' sounds pathetic; sounds as if I'm too old to stir up any trouble," I grumbled. "But I rather like the idea of you getting me in hand."

She squealed in scandalized delight. "Erik, you heathen! What will the carriage driver think?" she whispered.

"I told him to mind his business; we're newlyweds."

-0-0-0-0-

We had regular letters from Miri-ange. Her tone brightened as time wore on, especially in the letters she sent to her siblings. I suspect she wanted me to suffer awhile longer, believing she was still pining away for her One True Love, so she remained suitably glum in her notes to Christine and me. More reliably, Reza reported that she was feeling better; he realized he was for it when Miri-ange actually deigned to acknowledge the swarm of handsome young swains which materialized whenever she appeared. He hastened to add that she evinced no preference for any of them, and seemed to regard them as one would a boisterous pack of hound puppies. Sounded like she was indeed on the mend; we could only pray that her reputation followed suit. I was concerned that after all her difficulties, Miri-ange would still not be induced to take a look at her behavior and make the necessary changes. I hoped we'd be able to chat honestly when she returned home, when the passage of time had provided us both with some perspective.

I missed her terribly. Christine seemed so much better prepared for the eventuality of our children moving on. I asked her about it, hoping for some insight, some magical trick which would help me accept my children growing up so disgustingly quickly. Sometimes my bride is so matter-of-fact about things, it astonishes me.

"Oh, Erik, my poor sentimental sweetheart, it's nature! The babies must fly from the nest, you know that."

"Yes, I know, but…couldn't they stay a few more years until I'm gone?"

-0-0-0-0-

If Miri-ange remained unaffected by it, his sister's trial seemed to have a profound effect on Masson. He began staying closer to home. Not that he abandoned the ladies; heavens no, but he seemed more sober and thoughtful. For a fleeting moment I thought I might be able to breathe freely in my dotage, but I happened to wander into the conservatory one day and there was my Amazon, reading with a dimpled brow and nibbling a finger absently.

Carmen had taken to wearing riding culottes almost constantly, to her mother's abject despair, and she sat with her right heel on her left knee like a goddam field hand.

"Carmen Amelie, if your Mother walked in here now she'd hang me for how you're sitting! You'll sit like a girl or I'll switch you. God's teeth!"

"What does that mean, 'sit like a girl'? If I'm sitting like this, it must be how a girl sits."

"Don't you take that Suffragette Revolutionary tone with me, Miss; I've had this nonsense from the best before you were even imagined! SIT PROPERLY!" I roared.

Carmen rearranged herself grudgingly.

"And I want to see you dressed for dinner, do you hear? Dressed; as in a proper skirt, foundation garments, and the whole rig."

"How will you know what's underneath; are you going to inspect me?"

"YOU WON'T SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT AS LONG AS YOU LIVE!" I scared her; I did. Her eyes flew wide, but I didn't care; I was livid. I thought the top of my head may fly right off; just explode on the spot. Or, I could turn the little shrew right over and wallop her bottom; imagine the outrage. Poor girl; it was going hard with her since her sister's catastrophe. Deep breaths…try to be the adult.

I sat with as natural a smile as I could manage. "Darling, why would you want to treat me so disrespectfully?"

"Sorry," she relented. Something was eating her; I waited.

"Are you quite sure?"

"Papa, marriage is slavery! Why did you and Mama ever marry?"

All I could think to say was 'Sweet Suffering Christ!', and I was positive Christine would not approve, even under such extraordinary circumstances.

"It's expected that men and women marry, you know that. Anyway, I take exception to the suggestion that your Mother is a slave. You ask her yourself if she's unhappy and oppressed."

She shrugged, sullen and unconvinced.

"We wanted to marry, Carmen; we love each other. It's not so terrible when it actually happens to you. You see the problem here; you read Mama's books—what have you got there?"

"_The Subjection of Women_."

"There, you see: _The Subjection of Women_. You read this nonsense—"

"It's not nonsense!"

"There, settle yourself, Valkyrie; it was just a poorly-chosen word. You read these things all out of context and get an utterly distorted picture of what it's like between men and women. I don't say there's no woman out there who's mistreated, but you've got it all wrong if you give up on men altogether. Why don't you have an adult talk with Mama?"

"She won't. She says I don't need to know anything about marriage and men yet."

Ah; Miri-ange repercussions.

"Hm. Perhaps I'll have a chat with her—of course, I won't say anything about our conversation here. Would you like that?"

She nodded, but the faintest eyebrow crinkle remained. "Papa, I need to ask you something."

-0-0-0-0-

"I can't hear you…" my beloved wife sang from the bath. I rushed in, slamming the door behind me.

"You mean you're not listening. I'm telling you I had to explain the whole thing to her, and it's not my job. I do the boys; you do the girls."

"Erik, how old-fashioned you sound."

"Old-fashioned indeed. Christine, Carmen did not want to hear that from me, and I nearly keeled over."

"Why did you tell her anything, then?" She sponged her shoulder diffidently.

"Because she asked me!" I wailed. "If you'd told her when she approached you, I wouldn't have had to. She told me you said she doesn't need to know anything yet. Christine, that's not right, and it's not what we agreed."

"I changed my mind. Masson and Miri-ange were far too precocious sexually; surely you don't want to go thru that with Carmen and Gustave, Jeanette and Sophie?"

Egad. The thought of my little Sophie getting a sex talk made me woozy. I was grateful the wall was there when I needed it. After reminding myself that the Pickle was only six, I was able to focus on the parental disagreement in progress.

"So you're saying you want Carmen to go to her marriage bed ignorant, Christine?"

"Of course not; but I'd prefer to tell the girls about things on their wedding day. That's how it was for Manon, and for me, sortof; except of course from hearing talk."

I paced, dazed and incredulous. "In the first place, Madame, I find that frankly barbaric. In the second place, I'll be obliged if you'll inform me when you change your mind about how you intend to raise my children. And finally, it's unworkable. You said it yourself just now; you heard talk. Christine!"

"It's a little different growing up in an Opera House," she shrugged. "Manon had no idea what Raoul was up to."

"God help us all," was all I could say to that. Extraordinary.

"Erik, Carmen's fourteen and she doesn't give a fig about boys! She couldn't be more different than Miri-ange, and I want to keep it that way."

"Oh; so fencing lessons are alright now?" I dodged the sponge neatly, further infuriating Christine and amazing myself.

"Get out! How can I have a peaceful bath with you tormenting me?"

I retrieved the sponge. "Scrub your back?" I grinned.

She snatched the sponge from me. "No!" she growled. I was encouraged; her eyes were twinkling.

"Your front?"

"Beast; why do I put up with you?" She worked hard not to smile.

"Because I'm irresistible?"

"That must be it." She waved a hand, indicating I was to shuck my clothes and join her in the suds. "Erik, Carmen is right you know; it is slavery."

"Whatever you say, Angel." She slipped onto my lap; I was feeling ready to agree to anything.

"I'll be your little slave now, if you like…"

-0-0-0-0-

"Masson! Masson!" I hissed.

He approached, baffled. Once he was within range, I caught him by the arm and dragged him to the cellar.

"What, Papa?"

"Don't you 'What Papa' me! What the devil are you doing sitting in the garden with Soraya? Are you trying to kill me?"

Soraya: Anci and Darius' fifteen year old daughter. Daughter of an extremely Muslim father who didn't like me very much, not to put too fine a point on it.

"We were just sitting there."

"Do you think I'm an idiot all of a sudden?" I gasped. "You don't just sit with a girl; you've never just sat with a girl. You were flirting ten minutes after you were born."

"I like her. She likes me, too."

"No no no no no," I chuckled nervously. "No Sir. No sitting; no liking. She is Reza's manservant's daughter, and not for you in any case." I turned away, having said my piece. I needed a brandy; bugger it was eleven in the morning.

"Papa, I didn't want to say anything yet, because of everything with Miri-ange, but we want to marry."

I froze in my tracks, never turning to face him. "Masson, no. Just, no. She's not for you. You share neither faith nor station in life."

"We don't care about that!"

"I don't care whether you care. I can assure you that Darius will care deeply about it. Leave it, Masson. Now, you tell that girl it's impossible and let that be the end of it. Don't say a word about this to your Mother, and never, never speak to me about it again."

I made for the parlor as fast as I could without appearing to run from the boy.

"You say you want me to be good! How can I be good if you won't let me marry?" he called after me. I ducked into the parlor and slammed a brandy.

Sweet suffering Christ; sweet suffering Allah? The boy fell in love more often than I changed my underwear; one would think that he'd have to choose a suitable girl sooner or later. First a whore; now a servant girl, and how many dozens in between? True, Darius was working to educate Soraya and her brother, and she was a gorgeous thing. She'd inherited her father's dark looks and her mother's lush geography. But she was Muslim; Christine would never stand for it. Masson was my son; Darius would never stand for it. I didn't care much about the servant girl thing, but everyone else would; it was just a sad reality of life among the hypocrites.

I poured another drink, lit a smoke, and damned all the raging hormones under one roof.


	108. Chapter 108

I obsessed about Masson and Soraya. It was a catastrophe. God, I missed Reza. It really had nothing to do with who Soraya was, though it certainly didn't help. My son was almost twenty; plenty of people married at twenty. But Masson was as playful and unprepared for the world as any puppy. Likely my fault again. It made no sense forbidding him Soraya; they'd find a way if they were determined, and if Soraya faded away, some other lovely would fill her place. I had to find a way to put Masson off the idea of marrying anyone. It's true I'd told him to be good, so I understood his confusion. But when I thought it through, I didn't really expect him to be good so much as I wanted him to be careful. I certainly didn't want to see him make a premature marriage.

"Do you like being married, Raoul?" He gave a start as he lit my cigar.

"Hm? Of course! How else would a man live?"

"Bachelor; like your brother."

"Mm, true." He puffed and considered briefly. "No. I like it better this way. Well-bred children, a wife to be proud of, and a bit of strange fluff now and again. I like the security, knowing someone's there. Manon's a good girl."

"My son is not ready for marriage. I can't see him being ready for marriage anytime soon. I need to find a way to talk him out of it. I don't want to put him off it altogether, mind you; I just want to get the idea out of his head for the foreseeable future."

"Who is it this month?"

"It's a disaster, that's who. Soraya—you know, Darius and Anci's—"

"Yeow," he winced.

"Indeed. But that's not the point; he's just too young. He thinks it's all having your little playmate right there, day and night; hand-holding and lovemaking. God knows I love Christine, but it's not all bread and chocolate."

"You're a fine one to say that, after the torture you've put her through," Raoul cracked.

"Shut up. I saved her from you and your poxy python."

We meditated on our cigars.

Finally Raoul broke the silence. "So, what are you going to do?"

"Don't know," I admitted.

"Want me to have a word with him?"

"What would you say?"

"Don't know, but he might be more inclined to listen to me," he suggested. That was too much for my old paternal heart to bear.

"I can't even talk to my boy anymore," I burbled.

"Oh, Jesus, don't go maudlin on me. It's normal, Erik; they get a certain age and they think we're stupid. Stop it; I'm not hugging you like Reza does."

"You're just worried I'll grab your ass," I sniffed.

-0-0-0-0-

"May I please be excused?"

I had a quick look at Jeanette's plate; except for onions meticulously separated from the peas, she'd eaten well. She had to be watched, as she was a skinny, picky little thing who'd subsist on oranges and shortbread if you let her.

"Of course. Take the Pickle with you; see if Darius has a treat in the kitchen."

"Yay! Shortbread!" Sofie was off like a bullet from a pistol. Adorable plump little pigeon; she was my prize, and a champion in the clean plate competitions. Sometimes I feared for the pattern on the china.

Her mother, my other prize, was not so hungry.

"So will you tell me what it is now, Angel? Trouble with the girls? Do you need money?" I prodded.

"I'm fine."

"I see; you're fine, but you've not even touched your frangipane tart."

"I'm just not hungry," she fussed, eyebrow twitching.

"Alright."

Sometimes I irritate Christine just as much when I'm agreeable as when I'm argumentative. She leapt up and paced the length of the dining room, wringing her napkin silly.

"I'm not saying I agree or disagree, I'm just saying," she opened.

"Of course."

"The tutor called on me today; it's about Gustave."

"What? What about Gustave? Is it his hearing?"

"No! Will you stop imagining the worst all the time?" Gustave's hearing had leveled out as well as we could expect, and he was doing alright. He heard muffled sound in his bad ear; if the room was quiet and he concentrated, he could even make out words. The other ear was normal. It could've been much worse; still, I suffered it.

"He says Gustave is very clever with math; Algebra. He's got nothing to offer him anymore, Erik, the boy is that bright!"

I started to smile until I beheld the agony in Christine's eyes. "What is it, Angel? Why is it a bad thing if the boy is clever?" I moved to her side. "You've made me such brilliant babies."

She snatched her arm away peevishly. "Will you stop and listen?"

"I'm sorry." I returned to my seat, baffled.

Christine returned to her pacing. "He has a friend in Liege, at the University; he took the liberty of sending some of Gustave's work to him. He thinks Gustave should go to Liege and meet M Le Paige. He's a big mathematician and astronomer there at the University."

"Good grief!"

"But he's just a boy, Erik! What if they want to keep him?" The napkin metamorphosed into a handkerchief.

Ah-ha.

"Christine, aren't we getting ahead of ourselves? Perhaps M Le Paige will suggest some books to give the boy until he's ready to go to university; perhaps he can put us onto another tutor. We mustn't assume he's going to take him from us."

"I don't know why you're being so calm about this. I expected you go take to your bed at the thought of losing another baby," she complained.

"I'm sorry my good health offends you. Anyway, I'm trying not to think too far ahead; it keeps my raging panic under control." It was a feeble attempt at humor, but Christine was too deep into her own drama to notice.

"If this continues apace, I shall have to start having babies again," she frowned.

What?

"Angel, aren't you the one who's always telling me that the birds must leave the nest?" I reminded her gently.

-0-0-0-0-

Masson called Raoul 'My Father's Mouthpiece' and rejected everything Raoul tried to say out-of-hand. Another plan was wanted, and soon. The clock was ticking on Romeo and Juliet. I went for a last resort; I asked Anci to meet me in the parlor and be quiet about it. I'd eliminate the immediate threat of Soraya, and then find a way to put Masson off marriage until I was eighty.

When Anci joined me, her eyes were huge, her cheeks pink. I hustled her into the room and we huddled on the sofa, the better to whisper. She sensed my urgency, and was more than clever enough to understand the need for discretion. When I'd assured Darius he'd have no trouble from me, it was understood that I'd never again permit myself to be alone with Anci, perhaps even speak to her unless the house was on fire.

"Anci, there's a situation, and I need your help. But it needs to be just between you and me, Child, hm? I don't want to trouble Christine with it, and I'm sure you won't want to trouble your dear husband."

She nodded and smiled warmly. It almost appeared she'd become smarter with time.

"Right; I'll just come to the point."

"You don't have to say if you don't want to. I don't know why you waited so long," she whispered.

"Well, I only just realized there was a problem. If you suspected, why didn't you come to me, Anci?" Perhaps we'd have nipped the thing in the bud if she'd come to me sooner; she was no smarter after all.

She looked completely baffled by my question. "I…thought you wouldn't want to hear about it."

I had to check my temper from flaring in case she was still timid about that. Stupid child. "Of course I'd want to hear about it, Child," I smiled indulgently.

"Good. I want to help." Her hand alighted on my knee.

Right; old times, I supposed. I plucked it off, cradled it in my bony paw and gave it an avuncular pat. "Good. Now then—"

"Do you want to do it now? We should go somewhere else, shouldn't we?" She was all cow eyes.

"What?"

"You want to do it here?"

"Do what here?" How I could be having trouble following Anci's train of thought evaded me. I was losing control of the conversation, and I was the clever one.

"You know," she insisted. For emphasis, she moved closer; far too close. I scooted away as surreptitiously as possible…and then it hit me. I am forced to admit my faculties have diminished with age; I am a moron.

"Oh, no. No, Anci, you've got me all wrong. No, no." I leapt from the sofa like a marionette. "It's about the children, Soraya and Masson."

"Soraya?" I could see the thoughts whirling through her brain; painful to watch. Soraya, my daughter; Sir doesn't want to play, he wants to talk about the children. "Soraya and Masson?"

"He told me the other day that they like each other. He says they even want to marry, but you know that's not possible."

"That's not possible," she parroted, obviously still reeling from the realization that she'd not be getting a bit of the bag of ancient bones.

"Yes. That's not possible because Soraya is a good Muslim girl, and her Papa wants to find her a good Muslim boy, hm?"

Anci nodded.

"So what Erik needs Anci to do is talk to Soraya, and make her understand that Masson is not the boy for her; he's a naughty Christian boy. Will you do that for me, for all of us?"

Anci nodded again. "I thought you wanted to play," she whined, fifteen again. Welcome to the Theatre of the Absurd, my life.

"Anci. Dear. You're so pretty, you could have any man you wanted. Why would you even look at an ugly old man like me?" No answer was forthcoming, so I continued my propaganda as I shepherded my buxom little indiscretion toward the door. "Darius loves you so. You have four beautiful children. Is there some trouble, Child? You must tell him if he doesn't please you; I know he would do anything to make you happy."

Anci threw herself at me and began snuffling. Right; I patted her gently and pressed a handkerchief on her. Let her weep a few minutes and we'll get it all sorted out. Alas, I didn't get to the bottom of it as I thought I might.

At precisely that moment, the door flew open.

"Eri—"

From the look on Christine's face, you'd've thought she'd caught us _in flagrante_.


	109. Chapter 109

When I came to, Christine was touching a cool cloth to my temple and Anci was hovering at a safe distance.

"He's fine. You can go," Christine clipped. Anci vanished faster than Sorelli's virtue.

I immediately initiated self-rescue procedures. "Christine, I swear—"

"You should keep still, Erik," she soothed. A sick little grin played on her lips; the wench enjoyed watching me squirm! It got my ire up; after all, for once I was an innocent man. What an odd feeling, being falsely accused.

"Now see here, Woman, you should at least give a man the opportunity to explain before you slug him!"

"Slug you? You goose, you fainted like a debutante!"

I turned colors while she laughed at me. "Careful you don't split your corset, Madame," I groused.

Recovering her composure at last, she slipped my mask off and kissed my forehead. "My darling grumpy Angel, you should have seen yourself. Really, Erik; you might have given me credit for a bit of intelligence." She continued pressing kisses on me. "I love this face," she mused.

"Right, well, a lifetime's habits are hard to break. How many times in my career have I not been at fault?"

"Grumble if you must, then, but it's her I don't trust, not you," she sniffed.

"Whatever for? She's a respectably married woman." Best not to add fuel to the fire by confirming Christine's suspicions. Besides, it had to be some kind of misunderstanding; the child couldn't really want me. Surely it was general masculine approval she was after.

"I suspect you were the first person who was ever nice to her, ever paid her any attention. Never mind the nature of the attention," she added sourly. "She used to look at you as if you were Christ Transfigured. She's moderated some with time, but…women know these things."

"If you say so." My darling Christine sees so much to love in my wretched corpse that she's convinced it's apparent to everyone. I'm the luckiest monster that ever was made.

"You still don't realize your own magnetism, my silly Angel." She gave what there was of my nose a pinch. "Now why don't you tell me what business you two had together."

"Er. Um…it's rather private."

"WHAT?" I saw immediately that I'd misjudged the depths of Christine's conviction that I was innocent.

"I mean…I mean…" I was searching for something plausible, harmless, and completely untrue.

"You'd better mean--quickly."

"Right. Right." There was nothing for it; the boy was on his own. I poured out my alibi. "Masson and Soraya are sweet on each other. They fancy they want to marry." I couldn't look at her. I was terrified a lightning bolt might catch me and strike me dead. "I tried to talk to him, of course, and that was no good. And Raoul tried to talk to him, and that was no good either. So I decided to buy some time by working on it from the other end, see, until I could think of some way to get the boy sniffing down another trail." Unfortunate choice of words, but it was alright under the circumstances. Christine was fuming about the religion thing, as I knew she would.

"How the devil does he expect to—she's not even Protestant!" She was on her feet. "You should have told me about this immediately, Erik."

Crap; I was sliding down the muddy bank into trouble again. "I didn't want to worry you, Angel. With Miri-ange, and Gustave and all…"

"I'm not a child. I'll decide when I need protecting, and I'll let you know," she snapped. I wasn't really in trouble. Her eyes said she'd moved on completely. "Now where is that boy…"

"Wait, Christine; your reaction now is precisely why I didn't tell you about it. It needs delicate handling or else it'll blow up in our faces."

"I can tell Darius, and that'll make an end of it!" she fumed.

"Oh you'd do that, would you? And see that poor girl married off to the first marginally human male Darius can find, so long as he's Muslim, just to get her out of the house?"

"You don't think he'd do that." She joined me on the sofa, pulling my arm over her shoulders.

"I absolutely know he'd do that."

"Well then, we'll just sit Masson down and tell him we expressly forbid him to marry yet." She had that determined set to her jaw; the battle had been joined.

"It's probably no good pointing this out, but he's your son, Madame. When have you ever responded favorably to being forbidden something?" I pointed out.

"Then we won't forbid him in so many words. We'll present a coherent, flawlessly logical argument, and—"

"A flawlessly logical argument, to a devastatingly romantic nineteen year old who's led about by his gonads. Brilliant; Darling, I'm sure that's the solution. So relieved I brought this up."

"Now you're in danger of being slugged," she growled.

"Except I could execute a suave move and sweep you off your feet, right here in the parlor," I threatened.

"Don't distract me; I'm worried about my son." I backed off and she rested her head on me, sighing petulantly. "This is all your fault."

"I never doubted it for a moment; but why do you say so?"

"Because he's so…French. I'm Scandinavian. He got this obsession with girls from you and your passionate Gallic temperament."

"That is true, of course. How well I remember the women of France declaring a day of national mourning when Erik was married," I deadpanned.

"Yes; I shall slug you now."

-0-0-0-0-

I stared out the window at nothing. The rain made a comforting patter on the conservatory roof.

"Papa."

"Miri-ange!" How she'd changed in four months! The image of her mother, she was breathtaking.

"I'm sorry, Papa," she whispered.

"It's in the past now, Angeline." I rocked her in my arms. "You're home; I'm so glad you're home."

-0-0-0-0-

Raoul agreed to accompany me when I took Gustave to the University of Liege. "I've never had a Belgian girl that I recall," he grinned.

"Christ," I grimaced. "Is that what this is about, so you can sample a Belgian whorehouse?"

"Come on, it'll be fun."

"No thank you. Have you forgotten that my impressionable young son will be with us? Christine'll have my nuts on a plate if I take him near any sparkly ladies."

"We can leave him with the maths professor for one evening. Come on, Erik, don't be such a granny," he wheedled.

"Raoul. Your puppy eyes will work no magic on me, and I am no granny. I am an insanely happily married man, utterly devoted to my wife, not that you would know what it's like," I sniffed.

"Who ever said I'm not happily married? I'm trying to spare Manon's delicate sensibilities the burden of my formidable appetites."

"Please spare my delicate sensibilities the burden of your formidable mendaciousness. You're an adulterous fiend; you should be horse-whipped."

"You're just jealous, Old Man."

"You're absolutely right."

-0-0-0-0-

I was pottering in the kitchen garden with Sofie. She'd planted some rosemary and mint, both all but impossible to kill, and we had to check her plants regularly.

"Pickle, how about we make a surprise for everyone: ice cream. We can use your mint."

"Papa!" My little chunk knocked the wind from me in her excitement. "My mint from my very own garden? Yes! Yes!"

"Very well then; let's go and ask Darius if he'll let us borrow a patch of his kitchen."

"And bowls and stirrers!" She bounced and twirled.

"Mm, and how shall we make it sweet?"

"Sugar!"

"And what else must we use for ice cream?"

"Cream!"

"Right, and that's the whole recipe," I smiled. The Pickle's plump little hand squeezed my bony fingers.

"Papa, how do we get the mint out of the leaves?" She crinkled her nose. "I don't want to have leaves in the ice cream."

"We're going to cook them in a bit of water, with the sugar, to make a minty syrup."

"How come you know how to make ice cream? Did you used to have a job like Darius?"

"No; I used to live on my own. I had to feed myself, didn't I? Poor skinny Papa." I hoisted the Pickle onto my hip. She swung her feet gaily.

"Papa, tell me a story about when you lived on your own."

"Hm…let's see. Did I ever tell you about how Uncle Reza and I ran away from the bad people who were after us?"

"No-oo. Just you, on your own."

"Alright, I'll tell you about the first time I saw a beautiful little princess who grew up to be your Mama. She was only a bit older than you are now."

As we turned back toward the house, I spied the two lovebirds, apparently involved in a heated discussion—not to say argument. I'd deal with that later.

-0-0-0-0-

"I missed you, Old Man." I handed Reza his brandy. "How was it?"

"Wonderful," he smiled. "Miri-ange was delightful, and it was something of an extended honeymoon for Silke and me."

"Oh my; tell me you didn't expose my daughter to any exotic Persian techniques," I grinned.

"We were quieter than you and Christine ever managed." We had a good laugh on that; then I turned solemn.

"How is my little girl?"

Reza took a sip, pondered a moment. "She missed home, and all of you, terribly. She is worried about what life will be like for her now. Doesn't want to return to Monmartre; she is afraid of running into Renoir. And I think she's feeling ashamed."

"Christine and I will have to reassure her that we love her and aren't ashamed of her."

He nodded. "What is new here?"

"Funny you should ask, haha. Masson and Soraya."

Reza nearly spit up his drink. "What do you mean, Masson and Soraya?"

"They want to marry; so Masson claims, and so far I've had no luck in dissuading him. Of course Christine's insane about the religious aspect. I'm simply afraid Darius will turn to murder."

"Well, if you want to put a stop to it, you might tell him," he suggested. "Likely he'll ship her off to cousins in Persia if he catches wind of it."

"Egad, the poor child. Poor Anci."

"Well, I just say, it would end it."

"Which reminds me, I saw them earlier—arguing, it looked like."

"We can only hope," Reza chuckled.

"I expressly forbade him talking to her anymore; I'll have to call him on the carpet. It's not just Soraya, Daroga, it's any girl. Can you see him married?"

"No, I can't. You've protected them, Erik; some might say too much. Which is not to say that I don't understand your motivation."

"And what do you suggest? Throwing them to the wolves? Letting them perform with no safety net? No, Sir: I grew up that way, if you can call it that. My children will know they're not alone in the world, by God!" I sputtered.

"I said I understand, Erik. I'm not saying you should cast them adrift, but they have to begin to make their own way sometime," he soothed.

"When they're ready, they may do so."

"And how will you know when they're ready?"

"Goddammit, Daroga, last time I checked you weren't a family man! How the hell do you come to be an authority on childrearing?"

"You forget how I love those children, Erik" he murmured, lowering his eyes.

Suddenly I felt horribly guilty; I'd hurt him. Reza was as close to a grandfather as my children would ever have. For all I knew, he'd been unable to give Silke children; he'd never mention such a thing to me.

"Look, Reza…I'm sorry; I know you love them. I'm at wit's end with Masson, but I shouldn't take it out on you."

"Forget it. I'm used to your temper by now."


	110. Chapter 110

Masson was ready to join battle as soon as I entered his room. He'd been catching up with Miri-ange, but she excused herself quickly. I suspect he'd already told her about Soraya. "What?"

"You'll watch your tone, Sir, while you're under my roof. I thought we were clear that you were to make an end of it with Soraya."

"Yes," he mumbled non-committally.

"I saw you when I was in the garden with Sofie today; arguing, if I don't know better."

"If she's angry with me it's your fault! If you'd let us marry I wouldn't have to—" He clamped his mouth shut, clearly having said too much in his emotion.

"Wouldn't have to what? Masson, it breaks my heart that you consider me your enemy. If I advise you against this course of action, it's your best interests I have at heart—yes, and Soraya's, too."

"Did it ever occur to you that you might be wrong about my best interests?" He cried hotly.

"Yes. I could be wrong. When you get older, you can prove me wrong if you like."

"When I'm older, she'll be lost to me! She wants me to stop going with other girls! She doesn't understand! You're ruining my life!"

It was hard to remain calm in the face of my golden lion's grief. I wanted to make it all better so badly, I ached inside. "Alright, Masson. Let me ask you, just as I asked your sister some months ago: have you thought about what you will do? If I were to give you my blessing, what will you do?"

He seemed at a loss for words initially. Then, he found his tongue. "I…would tell Soraya, and…speak to Darius."

"And what will you say to Darius?"

"Why, that we want to marry." He was nonplussed.

"Hm. What do you suppose he will say?"

"He'll make a big scene like you, but—" Poor boy; so confident in his youthful ignorance.

"You think so? I didn't make a big scene when Etienne came to call for Miri-ange years ago. I spoke very calmly and reasonably, but still I turned him away."

He sat thinking that over.

"Would you like to know what I would ask if you came to ask for my daughter? Shall I rehearse you?" I offered.

"This isn't a game!" he huffed.

"I didn't say it was; I'm perfectly sincere. You will not want to be unprepared for your interview with Darius. Let's imagine he doesn't go insane right out of the gate. I suspect first he will ask you whether you intend to make a conversion to Islam."

"I will!" he insisted. I guess he thought this was the highest hurdle possible.

I nodded. "When we finish with this little exercise, remind me to return to this question. You'll want to explore how you intend to explain rejecting Christ to your Mother," I smiled. "But for now, let's move on. Now Darius will want to know about your prospects for keeping his little girl. He'll want to know your salary at the orchestra, and where you intend to live. Perhaps renting a home in Paris won't be acceptable to him; perhaps he'll want to see Soraya settled in a place you've bought and paid for." I paused; my young lion was frowning. "Is there a problem, Son?"

"I hadn't thought of a house."

_No, of course you hadn't_.

"Masson, surely you didn't really think Soraya would just climb the stairs and join you in your bachelor's bed. It's flattering you're so comfortable here with us, but the family home is no place for newlyweds; you'll want your privacy, believe me. Anyway, I can promise you Soraya would never stand for it. A woman wants to set up her own house, see her own things around her. She takes pride in making a pleasant environment for her husband and their children." Just as I suspected, his eyes darkened at the thought of children so soon. I paused and let him sit with all this information; who knew girls could be so expensive?

"So," I continued, "you'll want to have a look in the paper and see what cozy love nests are going for these days; I really have no idea. Oh, and it just occurred to me--you might check with your Uncle Reza. I don't know if there's any Persian customs about settling a dowry on the girl."

"You were in Persia!" He cried, suspecting me of heaping insult upon injury.

"But I wasn't exactly in the marriage market, Son."

His broad shoulders drooped. No spark danced in his golden eyes; clearly he'd been blindsided. Maybe Reza was right and I'd done Masson a disservice by letting him keep his illusions about marriage being all moonlight smooches and hand holding. Perhaps Christine and I did all our children a disservice by being so improbably happy together; perhaps it was wrong to encourage them to hope for so much, but I prayed not. But Masson's problems weren't of the emotional sort; it was all cold daylight reality for him: housing and food, feverish babies, too much laundry and an exhausted young wife demanding help when he wandered home from the symphony ready for bed.

"I better go look in the paper." He struggled to his feet under his first man-sized burden.

"You'll probably find it in the conservatory with Reza. Oh, Masson," I called. He turned leadenly. I slipped a chocolate coin into his palm.

-0-0-0-0-

Christine had packed, unpacked, and repacked my bag three times. I sat helpless on the bed as she worked a track in the floor. "I'm sure I've forgotten something. You haven't enough shirts," she decided, and she was off to the armoire again.

"Angel, I'm sure I'll be able to stray dressed without you."

"It's damp in Belgium; it's on the North Sea. You'll both catch your death."

"Darling, Liege is nowhere near the sea, as I recall. It's nearer Germany than anything."

"Well, that's a comfort!" She snapped. "All those zaftig frauleins, and Raoul to lead you astray."

"Not this again. I thought we'd moved on to my ill health. Given my generally decrepit condition, don't you think I'd avoid the frauleins out of enlightened self-interest?" It was meant to be a comfort, but Christine was in no mood to be consistent when she was fretting.

"Hmph."

"I can't believe you don't trust me, Darling; you said yourself I've become a perfect lamb."

"I do trust you, but those fat women could overpower you in a heartbeat." She flitted close and I pulled her onto my lap. "Stop it."

"You should be nicer to me before I must leave you; protect your investment. Anyway, I don't like fat women," I corrected, falling backwards.

She struggled delightfully. "Liar, you love chunky wenches."

"Here, if it will make you feel better, why don't you rehearse me? You pretend you're a zaftig fraulein…" I reached for her buttons, "…and I'll demonstrate how valiantly I'll defend my honor against the Hunnic onslaught."

Still she struggled and shoved my hands away. Normally I'd've had her by now. She was obviously even more upset about the trip than I realized.

"You're a randy old goat!"

"Mm, but I'm your randy old goat, Madame."

She turned and encircled my neck with her arms; much better. "Promise you won't let them keep him," she urged, pressing her forehead to my lips.

"Darling, you know I'd never make a decision like that without you."

"I told Manon that you'd keep Raoul out of trouble," she murmured, nibbling my neck.

"Excuse me, Fraulein, I'm a married man; you really must leave off…"


	111. Chapter 111

Gustave pounded on the door at half-five, dressed and ready to go; never mind we weren't departing until nine. I sent him off with a book about Belgium so I could say a proper goodbye to his mother. Our departure was traumatic all around, actually. Christine remained convinced the boy would be kidnapped by mad mathematicians and locked in a tower at the University to subsist on bread and Belgian lambic, scratching out algebraic formulae. I'd perish as well, either of pneumonia or ravishment by frauleins who stole across the border en masse to drain my hapless corpse of all vitality. For her part, my dear Pickle clung to me and Gustave, screeching hysterically. Miri-ange and Uncle Reza's recent trip had put the fear in her; too much coming and going. I assured her we'd be back soon, and promised fancy chocolates and a special surprise, but she was disconsolate and had to be dragged into the house lest she throw herself in front of the carriage.

I inspired a few horrified stares at the station, and that was sufficient to confine me to our train compartment. Gustave could not be contained; we agreed we'd let him run all over the train until a steward dragged him back by his ear.

Funny; most days I would go six or eight hours at least without seeing Christine, but simply knowing I was leaving her behind made me morose in a couple of hours. I trusted she'd fare better and keep herself busy, at least I hoped so. Raoul described me as 'hopelessly married'.

The nice thing about Liege is that it is a French-speaking city; so we didn't have to worry about Dutch or Flemish—easily two of the most bizarre languages ever developed. Upon arriving at our hotel, I penned a quick note to M La Paige, advising him of our arrival. We were expected, having made prior contact with a letter of introduction from our tutor's friend, M Phelan. I dispatched a note to Phelan also, as he'd requested.

Gustave and I meandered along the Meuse before dinner.

"What's going to happen, Papa?"

"Well, I suspect Monsieur La Paige will ask you about your studies, and you'll be able to tell him what you especially enjoy. He will probably give you some problems to solve, and show you what he is working on. Are you worried?"

"No; it's not like a school test."

"No, it's not. It's just that we know you're especially talented at maths, the way Masson is at music, and Monsieur La Paige is an excellent judge of such things. We're hoping he'll be able to tell us how to keep you challenged between now and when the time comes for you to enter university yourself. We can't have you being bored and getting into trouble, hm?" I rumpled his hair and he blushed.

"Like Masson," he smiled.

"You think so? I don't think you'd get into Masson's sort of trouble."

"Why not?"

"Because you're Gustave. You're more likely to dismantle a clock to see how it works—thought I suspect you'd have no trouble putting it back together. Or mixing some strange potion and creating an explosion in Darius' kitchen!"

"He'd chase me with a knife if I ever did that!" We shared a laugh for a moment.

"Mama's worried he's going to want to keep me."

"She's just being a mother, and getting way ahead of herself. If anything like that should happen, we'd have a great deal to discuss—all of us together, hm? Don't worry, Son; I'm not leaving you here."

"I know." I thought I detected relief in his sigh.

-0-0-0-0-

Phelan called for us at midday. On our stroll that morning, we'd seen stands offering the local specialty, and we decided to partake for luncheon. Waffles—what a revelation. I was determined not to leave Liege without learning to fix them. Gustave and I enjoyed them best slathered with strawberries and crème fraiche. Raoul gave us the stink-eye; he'd found of late that he had to watch his diet, as he was tending toward a middle-aged spread.

"There is a God after all," I grinned, "And He is just."

"You're fortunate Gustave and Monsieur Phelan are here, or I'd tell you what I think of you and your bag of bones," he grumbled.

After Gustave and I had eaten ourselves into a blissful stupor, Phelan started talking maths with the boy. It might as well have been Flemish; before I knew it, Raoul and I were both snoozing as Phelan and Gustave chatted animatedly and filled page after page with arcane scribblings. They woke us when Phelan was taking his leave. I accompanied him down to his cab.

"He is remarkable, remarkable. He grasps these concepts intuitively; I can't wait for La Paige to see him."

Paternal pride warred with apprehension. For the first time I worried if it was right to bring Gustave. No; we could manage this, it needn't mean the end of his childhood. I was jarred from my disquiet by Phelan.

"You'll forgive me, Sir, I pray you won't think me impertinent, but we mathematicians are a curious lot. I wonder if I might ask you…" he opened.

"Not at all," I replied hesitantly.

"Some years ago, in Paris, there was a series of bizarre events in a certain theater, supposedly haunted. In the end, it appeared that the ghost—"

I nodded. "Was flesh and blood, after a fashion."

"Yes." Phelan paused. "I wonder, by any chance, if you—"

"Yes Sir, I was he," I admitted. "A long time ago now."

"Of course," Phelan rushed to reply. He appeared more fascinated and curious than alarmed, as if he was encountering some celebrity.

"As you see, I am now simply an old man, trying to live quietly. I have a wife and children, and bills to pay, and aching joints. Nothing remarkable," I added softly.

"I don't know about that. By all accounts, you are a brilliant artist."

I shook his proffered hand. "I'm just an old man, trying to live quietly," I repeated. It was an uncomfortable moment. I sensed that Phelan wanted to say more, perhaps ask more; as he'd mentioned, he was a naturally curious young man. I was grateful when he climbed into the cab and let my memories lay. As I turned back to the hotel, I closed my eyes and called up the fragrance of Christine's hair. How I longed for her to console me, but all I had for company was the Opera Ghost.

-0-0-0-0-

Next day, Phelan brought us to the university. We sat in a tremendous lecture hall, young men jostling boisterously until a small door at the bottom of the hall opened. All fell silent as a round man laden with books trundled in briskly. There were papers peeking out of the pages of his books at odd angles, giving the startling impression that he carried huge blooming flowers. He set the books on the table with a booming ker-thump, propped his hands alongside, and gazed over his glasses at the audience. His hair was whispy grey curls, giving the impression that he was perpetually windblown, and he wore a bemused expression, as if he knew a joke that none of us shared. He reminded me of a slightly disorganized Gaston, only his coloring was rosy, and his eyebrows danced above his glasses as he spoke. I liked him instantly; I was not alone, as I saw a smile creep onto Gustave's lips as he studied the droll little man.

La Paige checked his watch and launched into his lecture. Raoul and I looked at each other feebly as Gustave leaned forward, hanging on every word. It was a long hour, but I occupied myself by watching the excitement play across my son's face. As the young men cleared up and out at lecture's end, he gripped my arm.

"Papa, isn't it marvelous!" he whispered. His eyes were glowing; I squeezed his hand.

"It is, Gustave. Come, let's go down and meet him."

La Paige finished scribbling in his notebook and strode to the bottom of the steps, hand extended. His clear brown eyes burned with what I was coming to recognize as a mathematician's intensity, and his gaze never wavered from Gustave. The rest of us might've been on the moon.

"Gustave Rouen! Brilliant; excellent you found your way!" He pumped Gustave's hand vigorously. In fact, every movement was one of crackling energy; I wondered how he came to be pudgy.

"Yes Sir."

"How did you find the lecture? No trouble, hm?"

"No Sir, no trouble," Gustave confessed, overwhelmed not by the maths but by the man.

"Brilliant." La Paige turned his gaze to our little group and Phelan made the introductions. La Paige nodded at each of us in turn. He studied me briefly in frank curiosity; for some reason I didn't feel offended. "Well, come along, come along. Let me offer you tea. Mustn't forget the niceties, hm?" He chuckled, throwing an avuncular arm around Gustave.

Over tea and biscuits, the conversation turned to algebra. They'd barely spoken a minute before La Paige and Gustave popped up to the chalkboard and began describing circles and scribbling formulas. I admit I was baffled; it wasn't even real numbers they were looking for.

"Erik, how does 'solving for _x_' help a man calculate cab fare?" Raoul whispered.

"I can't help you, but for once you needn't feel stupid."

The afternoon was waning when La Paige drew me aside. He slipped his glasses up onto his forehead. I had no idea what they were actually for, as he seemed to never look through them.

"I would admit him now," he clipped frankly. "Alas, the mathematician is ready, but the boy is not, hm?"

"I am glad you see it that way. We've been concerned—"

"Of course, of course you have. His grasp is most instinctive; he approaches it as a musician would a composition. Of course, music is nothing but maths anyway; you know this yourself."

"I beg your pardon?" I stammered.

"Gustave tells me it is a musical family, hm?" he nodded. He did not wait for my response. "Can you stay? A week? A month, perhaps? We will work together, and when he returns home, we will correspond until he can join me here in a couple of years."

I turned and called to Gustave. "Gustave, would you like us to stay awhile in Liege, so that you may visit with Monsieur La Page? I think we could manage a few weeks or so."

He leapt to his feet beaming. I nodded. "Very well then. Let's get back to our rooms and I'll scribble a note to your Mother."

-0-0-0-0-

We passed a quick month. Every day, Gustave would pop out of bed, gobble breakfast and make his way to the university like a proper student, leaving me and my wayward companion to explore the city and find whatever trouble we could. Raoul put his best efforts into locating a baccarat table, an absinthe parlor and an exemplary brothel. I accompanied him on a couple of raids, but mainly I sought out museums, arboretums and theaters. I located a marvelous chocolate shop and dragged Raoul to the Val St Lambert crystal factory.

"Crystal? Erik!"

"Listen, you've a wife, daughters and sons just as I have. I'm buying my darling a punchbowl and stemware, and sets of stemware for my daughters' and sons' weddings. You'd better do the same if you know what's good for you."

"Cripes, you make me look bad, Old Man."

"I do what I can, Beauty."

At month end, Gustave was fired with the spirit of discovery, but sufficiently homesick to make our departure an easy one. He had plenty of new books, copious notes, and a mind full of ideas to take home. He and M La Paige would correspond, and I'd promised to consider another trip to Liege in a year.

As the train pulled away from the platform, Gustave took his final glance at the city.

"Has it been a good adventure, Son?"

"The best possible adventure, Papa! Thank you!" He squeezed me so tightly it brought tears to my eyes; or maybe that wasn't what it was at all.


	112. Chapter 112

We arrived home laden with chocolate. Immediately, Sofie fell on us in tears.

"And what have we here? A lovely Flemish dolly all the way from Liege for my Pickle." With a flourish of my handkerchief, the dolly appeared. Sofie kissed my neck and gathered her doll up.

"Thank you, Papa. I missed you terribly," she advised solemnly.

"And I missed you terribly, Pickle."

"Come see my garden, Gustave," she ordered, taking her beloved big brother by the hand. As we watched them run off together, Christine sighed.

"I supposed I'll have to wait for Sophie's bedtime to see him."

"I've brought him back to you in good repair, I assure you." I gathered her up. "God, I missed you. I want my own bathtub, my own bed, my own pillow, my own little playmate."

"You write lovely, romantic letters," she smiled, "And I hope I never receive another as long as I live." She led me around the house to the garden path.

"I understand perfectly; I was miserable," I commiserated. "How is everyone?"

"Miri-ange is a bit adrift; she wants to paint," she shook her head.

"Well, why can't she?"

"Oh, she can, of course; but there's no outlet, you know…" she looked at me pointedly, "Since The Thing."

"Ah. There must be something to be done," I hoped. "And my son?"

"Your son has been an absolute lamb. He's been keeping company with his sister," she wondered aloud.

"Oh? This is magnificent news; is Soraya behind us, then?"

"I don't know about that. He is rather at home a lot," she noted. "Carmen is the same as ever; mortified because Jeanette has apprenticed herself to Silke."

"No; a Rouen woman, learning her way around a kitchen? How can this be?" I clutched my chest in horror.

"You may sleep in the stable for that." Christine turned on her heels, feigning irritation. I caught her wrist before she made her escape.

"Not tonight I won't," I growled, reeling her in.

"I can't wait," she whispered.

-0-0-0-0-

Half of the conservatory had been converted to a studio for Miri-ange in my absence. I was so proud of Christine; it's just what I'd've done.

"Angeline." She approached wiping her brush on a color-splattered rag; my little girl, proper artist.

"Welcome home," she smiled as I embraced her. "Oh no; I'm all covered in paint."

"It's quite alright, Angeline."

"No; I know how you are about your tailoring," she teased. "If I mess you with oil paints, you'll never forgive me!" We moved arm and arm toward her canvas.

"May I see? I know sometimes artists don't like works in progress to be viewed…"

"Of course you may see." Miri-ange had roughed in a riot of color; she was painting the view just outside her studio, the kitchen garden and the cutting flowers just beyond.

"I wish I'd had this in my hotel in Liege; it would've done much to keep my homesickness at bay."

"Thank you." She poured us some minted lemonade and I joined her on the wicker settee. "Mama was pitiful without you, too."

"I'm sorry to hear that; I'd hoped she'd be too busy keeping a close eye on you lot to miss me."

"You know better than that, Papa," she scolded.

"Enough of this, Angeline. Let's discuss you and your plans." My heart ached to see how her eyes darkened.

"I have no plans, Papa. No one will accept my work. No one will marry me." Her brave façade crumbled as she fished for her handkerchief, lip quivering.

"No, hush now. You mustn't think such things," I urged.

"Can you bear to have your disgraced spinster daughter with you forever?"

"Mirielle, nothing would please me more than to keep every one of you here with me. But it won't come to that; there is a man out there who'll be an adoring husband to you, I'm sure of it."

"Oh, Papa. Of course you'd believe that; and if you didn't you'd never admit it to me." She fell against me sobbing, wet paint and all.

-0-0-0-0-

Our reunion was not the transcendent experience I'd envisioned. Christine took it well, but then, it wasn't her fault it was an abysmal failure. She would take exception to my characterizing it as an abysmal failure, too; but from my humiliated perspective, it was. She made all the requisite wifely avowals to assuage my hemorrhaging self-image, but there was nothing for it. I was officially, irrevocably, unquestionably an old geezer.

"Just shoot me." I plopped the pillow over my head in disgrace.

"Oh, now you're being silly," she soothed. She kissed a tiny sliver of neck I'd somehow left exposed. I hitched the covers up testily.

"Don't; shoot me. They shoot horses when they're old and no damn good anymore," I mumbled. She popped her head under the pillow.

"I'm not going to carry on a conversation with a pillow and a disembodied voice. I had enough of that early on in our courtship, if you recall." I groaned and gave her my back. She scooted up behind me and threw an arm and a leg over. I tried to shrug her off. "Will you stop? Erik, it's been a long journey, it's no crime to be tired."

"HAH! Go next door and see what kind of crime Raoul's committing tonight!"

"Angel, he's thirty years younger—"

"Exactly; I told you, I'm a candidate for the glue factory!"

"You won't be reasoned with tonight, will you?" She kissed my ear and rubbed my shoulders. "How would I live without my Phantom?"

"Christine," I whined.

"Hush; sleep."

As Christine had assured me, I was more myself after a proper night's rest in my own bed. At least she didn't have to shoot me yet.

-0-0-0-0-

Everyone turned in amazement as Masson entered the dining room. He'd not been awake for breakfast in recent memory, so it was quite an occasion. Then I spied Christine curled up in his arms. My napkin fell unnoticed as I rushed to his side.

"Oh no," Christine gasped.

"He didn't wake up. He looked like he was just sleeping, there on the blanket at my feet," Masson murmured in disbelief.

It was a quiet, tearful day. We wrapped old Christine in his Phantom cape dish towel, and laid him to rest next to Smudge the goat. Sofie picked a bunch of flowers and decorated his grave with stones from the creek. I promised her I'd find a proper angel monument for him next time I went into Paris.

After the graveside service, Masson retreated to his room. The strains of his violin wafted downstairs throughout the day.

-0-0-0-0-

Several months after Christine passed away, I was digging around in the music room for some posh old fabric scraps from my theater. I was certain I'd saved them, and they were just the thing for Sophie and Jeanette to make clothes for the new cat, Marie Antoinette. Fortunately, Marie Antoinette was, indeed, female.

Suddenly, Masson clomped down the stairs and threw himself onto the sofa, not bothering with any light.

"Bitch," he grumbled.

"Problem, Son?" I closed the box and gathered the velvets and satins, brocades and organzas I'd collected.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't see—"

I waved his apology off. "I was just digging around. Is there a problem?"

"No," he replied with some finality. I nodded and moved toward the stairs. "Papa, wait."

I raised a silent eyebrow. He'd inherited my exasperated hair swish and his mother's irritated brow crinkle; he executed both and sighed.

"What do you do when a girl won't give you the time of day?"

"A girl won't give YOU the time of day?" I probably looked every bit as incredulous as I sounded. When I dared to venture back to his dressing room at the symphony—my heart didn't really bear it; I never knew what sort of outrage would be inflicted upon my poor eyes when I entered—I was forced to struggle through a bevy of swooning, breathless lovelies thick as flies. All shapes, sizes and flavors; if I didn't know better, I'd've sworn he was Raoul's after all. He must not've been a total rogue, either, because I noticed he did a brisk repeat business.

"No!" he growled, equal parts baffled and irritated. "I tell her I'm dying of love for her, and want to marry her, and if she refuses me I'll never survive it! I promise I'll never even look at another girl again, and she laughs right in my face! She says a kitten's more sincere, and I'm a shameless flirt, and she wouldn't believe me if I was the last boy on earth! Now, what do you think of that?" he demanded.

I thought I'd be for it if I failed to keep a straight face, actually. I made some appropriately commiserative sounds about how heartless the young lady in question must be. Sounded like Soraya was undoubtedly a cold old flame.

"But, honestly, Son, don't you think that any decent girl of a worthy family would look askance at your exploits? You've…amassed quite a collection of broken h—hearts…"

"But I've changed, Papa!" he insisted, swishing his hair again. Still perpetually in need of a haircut. Maybe the girl would take him seriously if he looked less like a lion; no, he was beautiful. He'd just run up against someone with a head on her shoulders for a change. "That's what I'm trying to tell her, but she insists on holding my past against me!"

"Well, ah, how long exactly have you been…on the straight and narrow?"

"Oh, God, days. Over a week now." He agonized. This boy was more into his drama and misery than I, if it was possible.

"Oh. My. Yes. That is…quite something," I deadpanned.

"I know!"

I settled beside the heartsick virtuoso. "It seems as if this young lady wants to assure herself that you're sincere, Masson; surely you can't fault her for that. Have you ever read Sir Walter Scott?"

"Hm? No."

"Well, you should. It's all about chivalry and the incredible sacrifices a man must make to win his true love. Some of these poor fellows go off on quests for decades."

"Oh, God, no," he paled.

"Well, surely you, ah, can manage somehow." Christine would kill me; I never did tell him he'd go blind and crazy.

"It's not the same, Papa!" he whined. _Yes, Masson, I know that; thanks very much._

"I hate to be the one to say it, Son, but even if the young lady accepted your suit today, you realize, it would likely be months before you could be married, at the earliest."

"Oh, God." I feared he might faint.

"You'll just have to bear up until she comes around. Think of your abstinence as a gift to your beloved."

"Oh, God."

Perhaps getting his mind off his…problem…would help.

"Why don't you tell me about her, Masson? Where did you meet?" I smiled.

"It's Liselotte, Papa."

What was left of my face fell to the floor. "Liselotte. Our Liselotte."

"Yes," he regarded me strangely.

"Liselotte; Charlotte de Chagny. 'Ew, Papa. Liselotte and Mimi are like my sisters'—that Liselotte?"

"Yes, yes, Papa. What's wrong with you? Are you alright?"

"Oh, yes," I sighed. "I'm…lovely."


	113. Chapter 113

"Papa, I'm going to marry you when I grow up." Sofie was having a bath. She had become an independent lady, and I was expected to wait in attendance until she'd scrubbed the parts she was interested in scrubbing; then I was responsible for the rest.

"That's very flattering, Pickle, but you know I'm married to your Mother. If not for her, I'd be pleased to wait for you to grow up. Let's get your head wet, now. Ready? Dunk."

She spluttered (from the dunking) and frowned (from my refusal of her proposal).

"Mamaaa doesn't like to grow a garden, and she doesn't know how to make ice cream or waffles," the Pickle sighed. "Why ever did you marry her?" Shades of Carmen.

"Well, there's more to marriage than ice cream and waffles. Mama and I used to make music together at the opera, remember?" I smiled, lathering up my little diva. As I scrubbed her locks, she scrubbed her doll's locks in turn, singing a song. "Alright, rinse. Ready? Dunk."

"And Mama is your Princess, and I'm your Pickle," she smiled. Just then the Princess herself popped her head in.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes; it's customary for a fellow to see his wife once a day, hm?" I reminded her, good naturedly.

"Your wife has a meeting," she replied patiently.

"It'll keep then; at least I hope it will," I winked. "Seriously, we can chat later. Watch your step please, Madame." Christine picked her way across the floor littered with toys, clothes and puddles. She pecked my head and Sofie's cheek.

"Sleep well, Princess."

"'night, Mama."

-0-0-0-0-

Sofie snuggled in for a story, Marie Antoinette dozing placidly in her arms. Somehow we'd happened upon another marvelous cat; Marie Antoinette actually spent most days wearing a bonnet and a doll's dress and being pushed around in a pram or sitting for tea parties. She never uttered a sound at being poked and twisted and squeezed.

After Sofie was storied and snoozing, I made my way across the room to Jeanette. My little homebody was working on an embroidery sampler. She began speaking as soon as I sat down.

"Mama says that a girl can do any job a man can do, but I don't want to have a man's job. I want to stay home and have babies and take care of them, just as you take care of us." Her voice was softly determined.

"I'm sure that will be fine with Mama, Jeannie. All she wants is for you to be able to have as many choices as your brothers do, not for any choices to be closed off to you simply because you happen to be a girl. Do you see?"

"Mm. But still I think she'll be disappointed."

"Oh, no, Jeannie; never."

"I'm not like Masson or Miri-ange or Gustave or Carmen," she stated flatly.

"Of course you're not. Here," I scooted alongside her for a proper cuddle. "You are all to yourself, unique and precious. You have your own gifts and talents, and we do not compare our children."

"I can cook and sew," she dismissed.

"You could be a fine pianist anytime you wanted to, but your heart's not in it. You're a quiet comfort, my dear. You care about home and family and those close to you; so do I. That's nothing to be ashamed of, or disappointed in."

"I hope you'll tell Mama it's alright," she suggested, setting her needlework aside.

I drew the covers up and kissed her silky cheek. "I think she knows, but I shall certainly remind her," I promised, slipping a chocolate coin under her pillow before I moved off.

I looked in on my mathematician, but he was up to his elbows in scratch paper; he held up a silent finger that he'd be with me in a moment, but I've stood ten minutes waiting before moving on, forgotten.

"That's alright, Son; I'll see you tomorrow. Not too late, now." He nodded absently. Likely he'd pass out at his desk as he did most nights; I'd come in later and guide him to bed.

Finally I looked in on Carmen. Just as I suspected, she was locked in deadly chess combat with Bertrand, vicomte de Chagny while Erik kibitzed nearby. The composition of the Three Musketeers had changed slightly since Gustave had discovered maths.

"Gentlemen, I'm sorry to have to say it, but it's time you went home."

"Papa, just let us finish the game!" Carmen pleaded. We went through this almost every day.

"No, Mamzelle, that could take hours," I smiled, placing a kiss on her head. "Just put the board up until tomorrow, please. Good night boys."

-0-0-0-0-

I nipped downstairs and out the front door for a walk in the garden. I missed the dark; sometimes, it was nice to walk alone. I cut a respectful swath around the conservatory; Miri-ange and Masson were entertaining, and it wouldn't do to seem as if I was chaperoning. Since The Thing, as Christine called it, Miri-ange took everything very much to heart. If I appeared to be chaperoning, she would think I thought she couldn't be trusted.

I spied them briefly when I turned by the kitchen garden, nevertheless. Liselotte was there, and a couple of Masson's friends from the symphony. Alain was more Masson's age, and a student flautist. He had a quirky sense of humor and thought it was brilliant that Masson's father was the former Opera Ghost. Every time he visited, he found a way to pop in on me and make small talk. Christine called him my Not So Secret Admirer. Jacques, on the other hand, was a painfully shy cellist. He hovered silently around the periphery, basking in Miri-ange's radiance. He was utterly smitten with her, but for some reason she didn't seem to notice. It was something of a scientific inquiry to me to see how long it would go before his heart overcame his bashfulness and he declared himself.

Suddenly I remembered a jar of pickled onions that needed plundering, so I took a detour. I sliced a small hunk of Roquefort from the wedge for myself, and placed the rest on another plate for the young people in the conservatory. I arranged some onions and orange slices around it, picked up a loaf of bread and carried the snack out to them.

"I hope you'll forgive the intrusion, but I was feeling snackish and thought someone else might feel the same." My contribution met with great approval.

"Thanks, Monsieur Rouen!"

"This is wonderful!"

"Now all we need is a bottle of wine!"

As I made my way back to the kitchen, I called, "Come along, Jacques, and fetch back the wine for everyone." I didn't actually have a plan; it was just a moment of divine inspiration. A crafty old character like me knows when to seize an opportunity. As I pressed the cabernet on him, I murmured, "You should speak to her." Jacques' eyes flew open; I reckon he felt he'd been most circumspect.

"I couldn't; she's…" Poor boy.

"You've seen Madame Rouen, Jacques; do you really think your situation could be more impossible than mine was? You should give the girl some credit; speak to her," I sang, moving toward the parlor.

I try not to meddle in my children's lives, but that wasn't so bad, was it, giving Cupid a bit of a nudge? My Miri-ange was convinced no boy would ever look at her again, even when the evidence to the contrary was right in front of her.

-0-0-0-0-

"What the devil are you doing awake at this hour?" I demanded.

"I'm glad to see you, too, old friend. Or are you afraid that I'll raid your plate?" Reza chuckled.

"Touch those onions and perish."

"Good grief; don't you worry about indigestion?"

"Me? Never. Mmmm." I built a little tower of cheese and onions on a slice of bread.

"You're a bottomless pit," he marveled.

"Skin and bones, I believe it's called."

"So what are you up to this evening?"

"Waiting for my wife, as usual. She's at a finance meeting; house full of whores and no money. Perverse, really."

"Why don't you help her, Erik?"

"That's the point, you see, she must do it herself. If she asks me for money, it has to be a loan, and she insists on writing it all up officially and paying me back as soon as her cash flow improves." I chuckled.

"What a funny little creature she is," he marveled.

"I've given up trying to understand it all; so long as she's happy," I admitted.

"Erik, remember when she printed up those flyers with her name and address splashed all over the front?"

"She nearly did both me and Raoul in with that—first time he and I ever agreed, I think!" We laughed heartily.

"You've turned out alright," he noted.

"Thank you, Daroga. I'm glad you didn't let me hang myself."

-0-0-0-0-

"PAPA! PAPA!" Masson clattered in, sending two snoozing old men halfway to the moon.

"I hear you, Masson," I groaned. "Is the house on fire? Where's your mother?"

"I dunno! Papa, listen, listen!" He was shaking me awake, God bless him.

"I'm listening, Son, you needn't rattle the life out of me."

"I walked her home, and Liselotte said I could speak to Raoul! I'm going right now!"

Somehow, in my foggy state, I was still able to capture Romeo before he scrambled away. "Masson. Masson. What time is it?"

"Just about midnight," Reza called, drifting off to bed.

"He's still up; I saw lights all over the house!"

"Masson, no. You get a good night's sleep, bathe and put on your best clothes; comb your hair, for God's sake. You don't speak to a man about his daughter in the middle of the night."

"You're right. I'll wait til after breakfast," he nodded. "He knows me; it'll be alright, won't it?"

"Just be honest, remind him you've settled down. How's the savings going?"

"Um, I have twenty four thousand saved," he worried.

"That's fine, that's a start. Don't worry," I smiled.

"What if he says no?" Now the panic was beginning to set in.

"I find it hard to believe he'd say no, Son. He may say 'maybe' or 'wait awhile', but that's a long way from no. Remember that; don't lose heart."

"Oh, god. I don't know how long I can wait, Papa."

-0-0-0-0-

Christine slipped into bed and warmed her feet on mine. "Erik, feel my nose," she urged, poking her icy snoot into my neck.

"You mistreat your poor old husband; here I am all cozy. I'm nothing but a bed warmer to you," I whined.

"You're a bed warmer with privileges," she smiled.

"I have big news; if you're nice to me, perhaps I'll share."

"Oooh, what? Tell me…" Christine touched me in a way which suggested that she could be very nice.

"Your son is going to speak to Raoul about Liselotte tomorrow.'

"OOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH!!" she squealed. I can only imagine what the house thought. "Erik! It's better than Christmas! Oooh!"

"Right, now: pay up," I reminded her.


	114. Chapter 114

Masson's interview with Raoul went as well as could be expected, considering Masson's prior late career as a heartbreaker par excellence. He said "Yes, but…", the 'but' being that the wedding date not be set yet, and his consent being provisional. Raoul wanted to see them together over time, and I couldn't disagree. He wanted to make sure that Massons' passion wouldn't flare and die or find another object next time the wind changed. Further, I think he wanted to let a bit more time elapse since Miri-ange's scandal.

Once the mothers heard the news they went into paroxysms of ecstasy, and they swept the bewildered youngsters along in a flood of plans for the social event of the season, firm date or not.

But the happy couple was adorable; they whispered and blushed, walked in the garden holding hands when they thought no one was watching. Initially, like Raoul, I had doubts I didn't want to give voice to. They were so young, and life could be cruel. As I watched them together, however, I recognized the light in my son's eyes: he'd found his angel.

Predictably, Masson agonized over the protracted engagement. I counseled him, as a father of daughters myself, to let it be and not pester Raoul.

"You don't understand, Papa," he whined.

"Don't I? I was twice your age and then some before I had anyone but myself for company, if you get my drift. Go make yourself useful somehow or I'll put you to work building a chicken house."

"What? We don't have chickens!"

"That's beside the point; hard physical labor is just what you need!"

Raoul put a deposit on a little house in Paris for Liselotte and Masson; so much for my preaching about saving money and providing for one's wife. He and I had to team up against the mothers and insist they butt out and let the couple have some say about both the décor of their first home and the conduct of their wedding. They were running roughshod over the children. I pitied the dazed couple; many times I wished I could help them elope.

-0-0-0-0-

In the midst of all these wedding plans, Sofie accosted me. She could not understand why the newlyweds were unwilling to return to their beds in their respective family homes after the wedding.

"When they marry, they'll be like Mama and Papa, Pickle. You know Mama and Papa like to sleep in the same bed. It's what married people do."

"No! Papaaa! Liselotte can have sleepovers here, and Masson can have sleepovers there."

"But they want their own home."

"Papa, please tell them they can't go away!" Even Marie Antoinette looked irritated with me.

"Pickle, they'll visit us often. You know how close Paris is; we will see them often, I promise. They'll come for supper, and we'll go into Paris and see them. You'll see."

Poor Sofie. She importuned everyone in the house when she saw I wouldn't cooperate. She worried Masson and Liselotte silly.

-0-0-0-0-

As that drama unfolded, Miri-ange came to me and said that she had a beau; he wanted to speak with me. Naturally, I was effusive and ready to meet with him at his earliest convenience. I assumed that Jacques had found his tongue, but that would have been too simple. Since the betrothal, Miri-ange had taken to accompanying Liselotte to the symphony; afterwards the children and some of Masson's friends in the orchestra would go for dinner. Imagine my surprise when she said she'd met a man, and had seen him often at the symphony.

"He is not exactly my age, Papa; he is a bit older."

Egad; not again. "How much older, precisely, Angeline?"

"Um, I suspect he is about Raoul's and Mama's age."

I nodded. Thank God. "Alright, Love, I'll be happy to meet him. You love this man, then?"

"Oh, yes, Papa, he's wonderful. He's the gentlest soul; he loves poetry, music, all the arts. He longs to see my work. I know you and Mama will love him!"

Christine was transported when she heard that her little girl was in love, and rushed next door to share the news with Manon. When I suggested she might wait until we'd actually met, Christine glared at me as if I was suggesting the two of us perform a rude act in public.

Sunday afternoon, both families were together on the balcony, preparing to share dinner. Darius approached me with a card; I saw from Miri-ange's squirming and whispering to Liselotte that she expected her beau. I plucked the card from the tray and read: 'Cesar Marie-Josee de la Viez Boulanger Charbonneau'. Jesus Christ; of all the men in the world, Miri-ange.

"Christine."

"Hm?" she looked up brightly.

I beckoned her close. "Miri-ange's gentleman is here; if you all would excuse us for a moment," I called to our guests. I handed the card to Christine as we entered the house.

"Erik! Isn't this—"

"Yes, it is; according to Miri-ange, the age would be correct."

"Oh, no! What shall—"

"No doubt this will be a shock to him too. We'll see what we shall see, Angel."

"But, Erik—"

"Christine, if she loves him, if they love each other, there's nothing for it. I can't let her suffer for the mistakes of my past."

"You can't tell her, Erik!"

"Of course not; I'll have to sort that out with M Charbonneau. Don't worry, Angel; I'll see to it. I just didn't want you taken by surprise if we come to an agreement and I bring him out to dinner."

Cesar Charbonneau was on his feet, awaiting my arrival. He was essentially unchanged from our conversation twenty-odd years ago. He moved with swift grace to take my hand. "I apologize, Monsieur, for the shock my card must have given you. I only realized who you were after Mirielle and I had agreed that I would call on you Sunday."

"Not at all, Monsieur; it was undoubtedly a tremendous shock to you as well. Please, sit; may I offer you a pleasant cognac?"

"Thank you." He was resplendent in a green suit with a velvet collar; whoever his tailor was, he obviously knew his business. It appeared Miri-ange would want for nothing material, at least, if she made this marriage.

"So, Monsieur, I believe we know why you originally came, but tell me; now that you know the identity of your intended's father, is it still your intention to ask for her? I would not have you engulfed in unpleasant memories every time you behold your bride."

Charbonneau nodded; his black eyes were soft and sincere. Miri-ange seemed to have a weakness for the sensitive, poetic types. "It is my intention, Sir. Your daughter is my delight; I have grieved for my sister long enough."

"Quite long enough. Are you widowed?"

"No; I have never married." My raised eyebrow encouraged him to say more. "I've enjoyed my youth, I will not deceive you. Until I began to age and I saw my friends married, I had not realized what I would be missing if I remained a bachelor. When I was ready, I found that the women I had loved had moved on."

We discussed his family; his father's ancestry was that of Portuguese merchants and shippers and French planters in Martinique. His mother was a servant of the family, but I understood that in the islands such things were of little importance; classes and races mixed more easily there. At any rate, with my face, how could I object to this handsome man's dusky hue?

Charbonneau's finances were in good order; he retained the shipping business and a plantation on the island, all managed by capable overseers. Except for the occasional trip, he assured me that he had no intention of spiriting Miri-ange away to Martinique; he found France much more cordial. Christine would be glad of that. There remained just one final question to settle.

"Monsieur—"

"Please, Cesar."

"Very well then, Cesar," I smiled. "I would prefer if you never mentioned our prior association to Mirielle. My wife knows the truth of my involvement with your sister, and blessedly has forgiven it, but I would prefer if my daughter were spared the…inconvenient knowledge of my…indiscretion."

"Of course, I understand perfectly. I see no reason it should ever come up."

"Well then," I smiled, extending my hand, "I believe we have a betrothal."

Cesar beamed and embraced me; passionate creole. "Thank you, Sir—"

"Erik…"

"Erik, thank you Erik. She'll want for nothing, I swear to you!"

"It's love I want her to have in surplus, Cesar; not things."

"I understand; I'll love her always!" Another bone-crushing embrace.

"Come; meet the families," I gasped. "I hope you'll stay to dinner."

So the best girlfriends were both betrothed; much squealing and giggling ensued. The ability of Miri-ange to garner a marriage proposal put Raoul's fears about the lingering effects of the scandal to rest, and soon the mothers were involved in elaborate deliberations about which wedding should occur when, and where, and…


	115. Chapter 115

Jeanette and Sofie appeared in my music room, looking very solemn. "Papa, why is Cesar brown?"

"He's brown because he is creole. He was born in Martinique, which is an island where French, Spanish, Portuguese and African people live all together. His mother's ancestors are African, and their skin is brown because it's extremely hot there. Come." We made our way to the library so we could locate Martinique and Africa in the atlas.

"They got burnt."

"No, Pickle. The dark color of their skin helps them to not get burnt. Remember how Mama is always saying to cover up and don't let the sun burn you?"

"Mm."

Jeanette was still troubled. "Will Miri-ange's babies be brown, too?"

"I suspect they'll be a little browner than you, but probably not so brown as their Papa. Perhaps it's like putting milk in coffee. Look, here's Africa, and where is France?"

Sofie climbed onto my knee, running her hands over the smooth, shiny pages of the atlas. Jeanette's brow crinkled as she searched for France. "There it is!" she cried. "Look how tiny it is! Africa is so big!"

"Mm. Let me show you Martinique, now," I chuckled.

They were both delighted that France was larger than Martinique. "Yay for France!"

"I like Cesar, but he's going to take Miri-ange away," Sofie grumbled.

"But he isn't taking her to Martinique. Cesar has a big house in Paris; they will be just as close as Masson and Liselotte, and we'll see them often, too," I promised her.

"They want to sleep in the same bed, too. I like having my own bed." Sofie declared.

"So do I," agreed Jeanette.

"Well, there's no accounting for grown-ups sometimes," I admitted.

-0-0-0-0-

As Masson's wedding day drew nearer, Christine grew more and more distracted. I had been expecting it, when the realization finally hit her that her firstborn was leaving home. I tried to give her room, yet be here if she needed me; still, I knew it was something she would have to work through on her own. For all her talk about the birds leaving the nest, Masson's leaving would be hard on her.

One evening she offered to show me the dress she'd had made for the wedding; it had been delivered two days ago and she was thrilled with how it had turned out. I read as she disappeared into her dressing room to slip it on. She called out to me that I'd have to use my imagination about her hair; she hadn't decided how to wear it, then she said nothing further. Five minutes; then ten. Granted it was a fancy dress, but still, how long could it take?

I tiptoed to the doorway of Christine's dressing room, listened, but heard nothing.

"Angel? May I help you?"

Nothing. I called again. "Christine?"

I peered inside; my wife was crumpled on the floor in an effusion of silvery-grey moiré silk, weeping silently. I rushed to her side and embraced her.

"Don't look; it's dreadful!" she wailed. "I look like a gigantic rain cloud! Oh, god, what was I thinking?"

"Christine, the color is lovely. You look nothing like a rain cloud."

"You should see me when I stand up! I'm all poufy and billowy, just like a rain cloud!"

"Alright, when you're ready to stand, I'll have a look. If you really dislike it, there's plenty of time to have another dress made, Angel, and no harm done."

"It doesn't matter; I look horrible in everything! I'm a stick! I wish I was pregnant, at least then I'd have a figure!"

"You're lovely, Angel; you've never been a stick."

"Oh no? You should see how Manon fills her dress!"

Well, I had nothing to say to that. I let her cry herself out for a few minutes. She was utterly irrational over an exquisite dress; one minute she was poufy, the next she was a stick. It had to be Masson, not the poor dressmaker's work at all. I decided I'd have a word with the boy about laying on extra hugs for the time he was still at home. Meanwhile, I did what I could to convince her of her allure.

As for myself, I was holding up remarkably well against the specter of losing two babies in rapid succession. Whenever Christine asked me why I was so calm—always with a suspicious glint in her eye—I confessed that the reality of the situation must not have fully penetrated my defenses yet. I expected to be reduced to a blubbering, heart-clutching wreck at any moment.

The daroga noticed how well I seemed to be handling things, too, so he delighted in tormenting me. "You're looking well for a man about to lose a third of his progeny."

"Shut up. I can make two more any time I want."

"Oh really? And what does Madame Rouen say to that, Don Juan?"

"Yes; she says yes before I even ask. She's putty in my hands; I'm suave, unstoppable, and—"

"Delusional in your old age," he howled.

"Do try not to split your sides, you hateful old codger. You're just jealous because you lack my 'passionate Gallic nature', as Christine calls it," I sniffed.

"Really? She says that?" He was astounded.

"Indeed she does."

"Good heavens. Obviously you're many times the man you appear to be," he marveled.

"If you behave yourself, perhaps someday I'll show you," I gloated.

-0-0-0-0-

"I can't do this!"

Masson was a wreck. Each time he checked himself in the mirror, he was moved to re-tie his cravat, and he was making a terrific hash of it. I glanced silently at Gustave; he rolled his eyes.

"Here, let me do it. Again. But this is it, Son. I've got to go out and join your Mother, and you and Gustave need to get up to the altar. The natives are getting restless out there. There'll be the devil to pay if you keep Liselotte waiting," I smiled.

"How many people?" he worried.

"A lot," I chuckled. "No worries; once you see your bride, everyone else will disappear," I assured him. I adjusted the muguet in his lapel, took one last look at that unruly forelock; some things never change. "You look like a bridegroom, Masson!" He laughed briefly, nervously. I placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "You've grown into a fine man; your Mother and I are extremely proud of you."

"Thanks, Papa. I hope I can be as good a husband and father as you."

"You will. Treasure her; listen with your heart. Oh, and…" I slipped two chocolate coins into his hand. "One for you; one for Madame Rouen."

-0-0-0-0-

I swirled champagne on my tongue and surveyed the formal Chagny gardens, awash in color; gowns as bright as blossoms in every direction.

"Look at us, Raoul, will you; paterfamilias both, and now joined forever. Who would've imagined it?"

"Yep, and soon, fat babies with my brains and your looks…no…wait…"

"You're a disgrace. Father of the bride, drunk before sundown."

""I'm not drunk…I'm happy!"

"Come along; you'll fall off the balcony," I chuckled, shepherding him inside.

Manon met us at the threshold. "Oh dear me," she fretted.

"It's alright, Love; I've got him. I'll keep him safe and upright."

"You are a dear," she smiled, bussing my cheek. She breezed onto the balcony as I led Raoul past a sideboard groaning with sweets.

"Good idea, let's eat s'more!" he grinned, lurching toward a tray of petits fours.

"Yes; you'll be a fat, jolly grandpapa."

"I'm never going to look like a grandpapa," he huffed. "I've still got it!"

"I know you've got it; you just can't remember where you put it."

-0-0-0-0-

Three months later, same church; only this time it was me saying goodbye to my little girl.

Christine's hand on mine; "She's ready."

"Right," I smiled, squeezing her hand. "Christine, you're so beautiful. You've no business having a daughter old enough to marry."

"You always say the right thing. Here," she smiled, handing me a handkerchief for a change.

I knocked on the door softly. "Ready, Angeline?" I opened the door and beheld an angel. "You're breathtaking," I whispered, tearing up. "But there's just one thing…"

"What ?" she fretted, wide-eyed. I reached up behind her ear and brought my hand away with two chocolate coins.

"Papa," she smiled and tucked them into her bouquet.

I kissed each cheek and whispered, "I am so very proud of you. Be happy."

"I will," she promised.

I lowered the veil over my little girl's face. Next time I beheld her unveiled, she would be someone's wife. I drew a deep, shuddering sigh and managed a smile. "Shall we?" I offered her my arm.

"Papa, wait."

"Yes, Mirielle?"

"You'll always be my first love."

-0-0-0-0-

On Sunday afternoons, both newlywed couples came to Chagny/Rouen for dinner. It reassured Sofie tremendously to know that things worked out just as I had promised. As was my custom, I waited at the door to pluck my chubby brown grandson from his mother's arms. Erik Chretien Charbonneau was an early baby, if you will; I was only fit to be tied for a moment over it. Then I realized I'd have a brand new fat baby to cuddle and spoil, and I forgave Miri-ange and Cesar everything.

Erik and I escaped downstairs to my music room; I was beginning his musical education early. He burbled and flailed while I played.

"Remember from last week, now? Where is Middle C? Tell Grandpapa and we'll see if we can find a coin for my brilliant boy, hm?"

"Ah-ah-ah! AH!"

"Yes! Brilliant…what a clever boy! Kisses for Grandpapa, and we won't tell Nana or Mama about the chocolate, hm?"

"Tell Nana or Mama what?" Ooops; Christine descended and scooped my little man up.

"We're not finished our lesson yet, Angel." Erik began to snuffle. "Give him back, see? He wants Grandpapa."

"You may not monopolize my grandson, old man! Erik, you didn't give him chocolate! For heaven's sake, he's only three months old," she scolded.

"That's a disgrace, keeping a child from chocolate! What's wrong with chocolate? My children were raised on it, and they're magnificent!"

"Come along; dinner's ready. I'll let you take up this argument with your daughter."

I followed her upstairs, trying to think of a plausible lie for the chocolate. That's one advantage to being an old man, I can lie with impunity; people think it's adorable. Christine handed the baby to Miri-ange and tattled on me.

"Papa, no chocolate! You're impossible!" Miri-ange fussed, wiping the poor child's face.

"Bah! I've forgotten more than you'll ever know about raising fine babies! Tell them, Daroga," I hollered. The old man was deaf as a post.

"Leave me out," he grinned, happy as ever.

"Look out, here we go again," Raoul warned. "Tell us how it was back in your day, Grandpapa."

"Back in my day, I was wearing the same size trousers I'm wearing today! Hah! That shut him up!" I nodded at Masson and his little bride, on my left.

"You're a mess, Papa." My firstborn sighed, shaking his head.

"You'd better hurry up and do your duty, Son; they're getting ahead of you," I whispered conspiratorially. "Miri-ange, give my back my grandson; he sees you all the time! Have a look at this beautiful boy, you two."

"All in good time, Papa; don't rush us," Liselotte blushed. "We're young yet."

"Mm, but I'm not! I'll see a dozen babies around the Christmas tree before I go to my eternal reward!" For some reason, everyone thought that was hilarious.

Christine loaded up a plate and slipped it in front of me. Hands on my shoulders, she whispered, "Look at you, with your family all around you, my Angel. Can you believe it?"

"Don't pinch me," I laughed aloud for the sheer joy of it.

FIN


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